


May you live in interesting times

by MueraRashaye



Series: Friends Across Borders [4]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Developing Bromance, Gen, Headcanon technicalities, Heresy vs. Treason, Set it on fire!, Technical Firestarting, War with Ancar, Witchburnings, we're getting there okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MueraRashaye/pseuds/MueraRashaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite an official declaration of war from Sunhame, the 62nd Cavalry finds themselves running short of everything but enemies. With six weeks until the next supply train, and that timeline flexible depending on the whims of the flighty, foppish Son of Sun, their Sunpriest finds himself considering some truly wild options. After all, a Witch-horse had said it owed him.</p><p>As Kir should have expected, crossing the border and finding his Herald was the easy part. Between Queens, Traitors, Firestarters and Witches, it was a miracle his actual mission had been completed at all. But it seemed miracles were becoming a bit more common in Karse than he had thought possible, with a new Son Rising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperate times and measures

Kir looked over the burning fields grimly. A year and a half since war had been declared between Ancar and Valdemar, and Hardorn had just started throwing official bodies against Karse. And in the height of summer, it was a foolish commander indeed who marched reinforcements across the highlands at a brisk pace.

That meant his little unit of bandit patrols, barely fifty men counting commanders and himself, was responsible for an entire corner of disputed territory. The majority of the civilians had already evacuated, the ones who hadn’t – well they seldom lasted past another raid, either dead or finally leaving.

“Cursed soft-bellied doe-eyed wretch!” he heard the sergeant curse, no longer bothering with keeping his voice down around the priest. It had taken a moon of field practice and raids with his flames taking active part in the battle for the men to actually stop flinching when he made a sharp gesture. When he occasionally messed up (and occasionally ‘messed up’) he could turn the air blue with shipboard curses and frequently did, leaving him not much of a leg to stand on.

“That’s His High Holiness doe-eyed wretch to the likes of you,” he called over, snickers running through the cremation crew that was standing with him. The men rotated in fours through what was fondly called the pick-and-burn detail under his direction.

The officers of Ancar were burned alive or dead. The grunts were granted mercy and then given to the flames. In all cases they were stripped of valuables and orders, what animals they could save added to their train and eventually sent off with their loot to merchants and the refugees who had fled.

“What did he do this time?” Kir asked tiredly of the sergeant, the grizzled man at least ten years his senior and one of the first to willingly approach him and ask for details about his skill with fire. He had also been the first to formally request he join them for drills so his flames could be incorporated into their regular battle tactics.

The grin Kir had given him after that request had gone down in the annals of unit legend as the thing that finally got rid of the last black in the long-suffering sergeant’s hair.

“Reinforcements are being sent, a full company with a supply train following… ten leagues downriver,” he snarled. “I know the regiment too, if they knew what sort of straits we were in they’d gladly split supplies with us, Colbern is an old friend. But no, we are clearly more than adequately supplied with the money we keep sending back to the refugees instead of to Sunhame’s coffers, so we won’t be getting any support until the scheduled supply train at summer’s end!”

“How long can we last?” Kir asked lowly, dismissing the squad too carry their loot to the sorting station with a look. They didn’t need to hear this. Everyone knew they were in a tough situation, they didn’t need to hear the details.

“A month at three-quarter rations, no more fights. We’re nearly out of wound-treatment poultices, but we should be able to ride towards Rethwallen and find some midwives to bargain with if we set aside some of the silks and gems, maybe some mules,” Greich said, “Captain's already authorized it. But there isn’t much food that way, the lush lands are further in and only accessible by supply train for us.”

“Not due for six weeks at least, probably two months,” Kir reiterated. They both knew the due date of the train and the likely arrival date by heart; they bled and sweat by the supply train schedule.

“When is this Colbern’s train due in?” he asked.

“They’re due at the border in a week and a half at forced march, supply train follows by a week,” Greich hesitated, unusual for him, before he continued, “Colbern will understand, but they have the Oriflamme so – “

“Sunhame priests,” Kir spat on the ground in disdain, “Right. We’ll be lucky to get anything after their preaching.”

Greich didn’t say anything. No matter how much he might agree and didn’t curb his tongue much around Kir anymore, there were still the bounds of heresy and he wouldn’t cross them too blatantly in front of him. Habits of a lifetime, tough to break.

And the only solution he could see broke the habits of generations. Sunlord, was there no other way?

Looking over the killing field, wind blowing choking black smoke towards the dying land of Hardorn, he sighed. He knew the answer: the Sunlord gave no direct answer, merely speaking to the heart. And his heart was pulling northwest, to a land he’d been within spitting distance of and hoped he’d never get closer to.

Valdemar.

“Split the train. We send nothing to the south this round,” Kir said quietly. “Take what you need to go towards Rethwallen for medical supplies and what food you can. Send another group to this Colbern when he arrives, so they at least know of our situation and can see about splitting the train.”

“And where are you heading, Father Kir?” Greich asked with a raised eyebrow. He followed Kir’s gaze north and he paled, “Not – you’re going to _Valdemar_?”

“They have food,” Kir said bluntly, “They have trains coming south constantly to feed their armies. They hate Ancar. We need this Greich, there will be more raids, especially if this new batch of the army meets resistance and wins, sending the detritus running straight at us. Eight weeks, Sergeant. Eight weeks, supplies out in four. We have no other choice.”

“Yes they hate Ancar, who _doesn’t_ hate ruddy King Ancar, but they hate _us_ to! Sunpriest, this is _madness_. You’d be sent to the flames for this!” the Sergeant hissed, eyes wild as he stared at him.

Kir snarled, demanding “And who _exactly_ do you propose will set _me_ on fire, Sergeant?”

He drew back, shaking his head incredulously, “You’re insane. You have – you’ve lost your mind, Father.”

“Get the train ready. I’ll take a pair of scouts, leave them south of the border and cross on my own. If I’m not back in two days, they come back with the train and you go for Colbern, cutting everyone’s rations to last just in case. You lose nothing, and cannot be accused of heresy, that will fall on my head alone. Say I was possessed by evil or something and you barely managed to drive me off with your virtuous faith.”

“No, we just lose our best firestarter!” Greich snarled. “Father, you are an important part of this unit, you cannot just throw your life away on a fragile hope that you won’t get shot full of arrows the moment you cross!”

Kir hesitated, before realizing if this succeeded his secret would be out anyway, so he might as well reveal the card to get the sergeant to back him. “You remember the Sunbeam Brook summons? I am well aware of what you think actually happened.”

Official tales spoken to outsiders was one thing. In-unit rumors were far different, even if they were closer to the truth (Kir refused to comment on the very common rumor he’d burned a black-robe and laughed, it sounded far too tempting).

Greich nodded, reluctantly showing his interest in what had actually happened. Kir had never said anything beyond his one sentence to the Captain, everything had been drawn from that and the Captain’s logical cover-story.

“A Herald was one of them,” he said simply. By the pallor that came over the Sergeant’s features, that was all he needed, as when he seemed to recover from the shock he was clearly reluctant to agree with his idea, but by his nod, he’d support it, no matter how reluctantly.

It was worth confirming though. “Does that answer your objections?” Kir asked calmly, crossing his arms, uncomfortable in the heat, even wearing standard scout gear with only a few ornaments to signify his status as a Sunpriest instead of the heavy formal robes of tradition.

“The Captain is not going to like it,” Greich pointed out weakly, before sighing. “Very well. Let’s go and convince him, you suicidal fool.”

Sergeant Greich stormed off, trusting Kir would follow to the Captain. Kir would, but he took a moment to look north, fingering the intricate Sun-in-Glory he wore under his breastplate, silky white horse-hair still as clean and soft as it was when he first held it. “You’d better be alive, Herald,” he muttered, “Or this whole thing is doomed.”

The argument was long and fierce, but not loud. It was actually the dinner brought to them by a nervous assistant cook that finally resolved it. The cook presented the simple trail ration meal and stammered apologies that they were long out of any form of beer or wine that was usually offered.

Captain Ulrich raised a hand to stop the stammering, running a hand down his face. He and Kir were near the same age, but Ulrich looked older, starting to grey at the temples. He’d had jet-black hair and only the barest beginnings of crow’s feet when the Ancar conflict started. It had aged them all. Kir had escaped it physically, but he felt the weight of the years deeply on his soul, gulf between the men and himself both widening and narrowing as they grew less formal with him because of his status as priest and grew more respectful of him due to his abilities on the battlefield.

He had a knot-work page marker in his packs he’d been working on for seven months now that would have once taken him a week or two at most.

“Very well,” the Captain finally said, but added, “You take four men. We cannot risk those goods. You go across the border alone, as planned, and have four days to find this contact of yours and get a message back. Two days is relying too much on luck. You visit the quartermasters and get lists of the supplies we need, checking with the cooks and medics to make sure it is accurate. Prioritize food. You leave day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Kir said, inclining his head.

“Do not thank me,” he said tiredly, dismissing the cook, “If you fail, I have condemned you to death. If you succeed, I have condemned us all to heresy.”

“Not heresy, I believe,” Kir said quietly, “Merely treason.”

Ulrich looked up at him with exhausted eyes, smiling as he caught the distinction easily. “Speaking as a Sunpriest now?”

“Rare, I know,” Kir smiled, “Now the Blessing.”

The three men bowed their heads and Kir lead the Blessing, all three of them unknowingly giving the same private, fervent prayer.

 _Please, Vkandis Sunlord, let this work_.

 ***===***pagebreak***===***

Two days later, Kir said the Sun Rising and then mounted up, having two mules already loaded down with goods trailing him. Three of his four companions were similarly burdened, the last being the lookout. Despite their vague attempts at secrecy, by the morning after Ulrich’s agreement, the rumors had been all over camp (mostly accurate, surprisingly) and Kir had been approached by four men individually asking to join his group.

One had family in Sunbeam Brook. The second was Devek of second squad, who had given mercy to his friend the day he first set Hardornens on fire. The third and fourth were a pair of twins, northern sheepherder’s sons, and very good scouts. There were very hushed rumors of their family producing an uncommon amount of ‘vanished’ children.

It had been truly surprising to him, how much more welcoming the unit had become when rumors of his disagreements with Sunhame policy had become more widespread and steeped into their lore. Surprising and almost discouraging, that so many Karsites genuinely feared the loyal Sunpriests who were supposed to protect and guide them as beloved shepherds.

It was two days’ hard ride from the border, Kir planned to stop the train a half-day out where he knew there was a spring, and proceed alone from there. He had reviewed it with ‘his’ squad and they had agreed that it was as good a spot as any.

The next day they arrived at the spring in late afternoon, and set up their camp. Kir checked his own packs and loaded five days of trail rations and extra water. He also took some of the more militarily valuable letters they had decided to send along after making copies, along with some of the gems and money. He had a tally of the total offerings as well as the wish-list. All that remained was finding people who would listen to him without shooting.

He had managed to find some white fabric from deep in the stores, fashioning a truce flag of sorts. The white fabric had been a true challenge to find.

That night, the squad listened to him explain his plan of action as they ate.

“I’ll be heading straight across. When I find a road, I’ll head towards Hardorn, they must have patrols along the roads. When I get to one, I’ll ask for a Herald, under flag of truce,” he grimaced at their twitches when he said Herald. “You have to know – if I come back, the Herald will probably be coming with to at least see the train, if not accompany the entirety of our supply run back to the squad.”

“We will not shoot the Demon-Rider,” the archer twin, Galen, assured him, the others nodding grimly, “Food is more important.”

“Yes – ah, I would recommend calling them Herald. And Witch-horse, if you must acknowledge them,” Kir suggested.

“Father, you said – well, it sounds… ah, it sounds like you will be asking for a particular De- ah, Herald,” Devek, the highest ranking soldier in this little makeshift squad, pointed out delicately, and hopefully. He clearly hoped for some confirmation to the rumors.

Kir smiled wryly. He was counting on that for this whole plan to work. Without meeting Herald Anur, he’d have never considered making a desperate run north to feed his people.

“You remember the runs into Hardorn where we would stay in inns for some drinks?” he asked instead, and Devek and Malak, of Sunbeam Brook, nodded. The twins were too new for that, only joining after Hardorn was a no-zone.

“Custom had it that if Valdamaran guards were in and there was no Herald or Priest, there would be no problems,” he explained to the twins, who nodded in understanding. “So when priests were sent out, as I often was, we had a system worked out. The squad would go inside and see if there were any Valdemarans, and if there were, I would stay in the stables and they would send me food and drink from the kitchens. The inns were quite happy with the arrangement, as they got just as much business and didn’t have things set on fire any more than usual.”

“Unfortunately, the winter before the war started, on a damned cold night, there was such an inn,” Kir smiled wryly, “And the Valdemaran’s apparently had a similar set-up with their Heralds, so when I arrived at the stables to try and get a fire going so I didn’t freeze, I found someone already there. The poor lighting and soaking wood meant there was no fire so I couldn’t recognize him immediately, and until I lit the fire as I do,” he indicated the crackling flames in front of them, “We didn’t realize just who we were sitting next to.”

All four of them were snickering at this point. Meeting between enemies it might be, but it was still a rather ridiculous story. In fact, it was probably all the more ridiculous for it.

“We decided it was too cold to fight, so we made a truce for the night and following day, and sat and ate the food sent out to us. We swapped drinks, each of us having our own stash, and then stories. As I’m sure you know, enemies can become allies rather quickly with warm food, good drink, and amusing stories, ancient prejudice or no.”

Shrugging, he passed over the exchange of gifts, witch-horse hair pendant hanging heavy over his heart, and wrapped it up, “We parted amiably. He was permanently stationed with the southern guard from what I understood, so I hope he is still alive, and still stationed here so I might find the same Herald again. If not, I hope he reported a mutually tolerated encounter so I don’t immediately get hit full of arrows when I find one.”

He knew that, while insightful and amusing, it wasn’t what they had wanted answered, so he indulged them in an oblique way. “There were rumors of a Herald being one of the witches I was supposed to burn in Sunbeam Brook this past autumn. Since I never actually captured the witches, I cannot comment on the rumors.”

All of them clearly understood what he was really saying and their eyes widened. The twins exchanged gleeful looks, and he almost rolled his eyes. Whoever got to add this to the rumor pot would be drinking for free for a while. It’d be a race then.

“It’s lucky it was you who was at the inn Father,” Devek said wryly, “I have known far too many priests who would have set alight the whole town for one Demon-Rider.”

“Oh as have I,” Kir returned the smile, a sad tint to it as he continued, “But I always hated the screams.”

Malak opened his mouth, hesitated, then continued after some encouraging looks from his comrades, asking, “Always, sir?”

“Truly skilled Firestarters can set a flame strong and hot enough to burn without giving victims time to scream,” Kir informed them calmly. Let them think he had been planning his heretical existence from the time he was an acolyte. If it got them to trust him more, he might as well. The entire unit was going to burn for heresy if they were ever caught at this point. They were just lucky that those who were sent to them as reinforcements were sympathetic.

And those that weren’t, well. They were in battle depressingly often.

That seemed to resolve everything they needed to discuss, and he banked the flames before retiring, Devek taking the first watch. He had not been assigned a watch, the others insisting he be fully rested for his next day’s mission.

He woke early anyway, conducting a brief Sun-Rising service before riding out, Riva confidently heading into the no-man’s land between the two long-standing enemy nations. The gelding had made it through all their fights, helped by Kir setting fire to most of his targets from a distance and some more thorough cavalry training.

He fingered the prayer beads knotted into the cord holding his witch-horse Sun-in-Glory as he rode north, reciting prayers mentally as he scanned the horizon for observers. There were probably few, and if there were any they were undoubtedly focused on the enemy in Hardorn more than Karse, after a year of nothing from their southern neighbors.

He estimated he’d been in Valdemar about a mark when he finally hit a road, running towards Hardorn. Dismounting, he gave Riva some water and drank some himself, gnawing on smoked meat before he mounted up again and headed northeast, white fabric draped across Riva’s neck now.

It was the most nerve-wracking mark and a half of his life, going down that road waiting to hit _someone_ , preferably who spoke Hardornen or Karsite, or at least would be patient with his deplorable Valdemaran. Any learning of _that_ heretic tongue had fallen far by the wayside as he worked to improve his Hardornen in response to the war.

He spotted the armed group first. They were focused on their meal and the scouts were focused on the area towards Hardorn. He waved in response to their finally seeing him, not within earshot just yet. He had tucked his Sun in Glory under his breast-plate, but even without the turban of a Karsite officer, his coloring and the cut of his clothes would give away his country of origin soon enough.

He could tell when he’d gotten close enough, as there was a shout of alarm and a scramble for weapons. He stopped Riva and raised his hands palm up to the sky, scanning the group to find the commander of the patrol. “Truce!” he called, glad he’d learned that supposedly useless word in Valdemaran, a woman making her way to the front of the group. He kept his surprise back easily. His mother, grandmother and sister had been captains of their own ships, so women in authority positions, even somewhat militant ones, were not completely unheard of to him. But it was surprising that the first batch he ran into was led by a woman.

“Karsite,” she said in Valdemaran, stopping a few meters away from him. “What business have you with a truce?”

“Know you a Herald Anur?” he began cautiously in the same, sighing in relief and murmuring thanks when she nodded, clearly surprised at his knowing a Herald’s name.

“News for him, I have. Stationed in south, still he is?” he managed, last sentence coming out somewhat mangled and he winced.

She nodded reluctantly, clearly debating if she dared bring this Karsite before someone as valuable to the country as even a single Herald.

“We will send a messenger to him,” she said finally. “They will ride ahead, and you will ride with us as we escort you. We are heading to the guard station which Herald Anur is assigned now. Your name, Karsite?”

“Kir Dinesh,” he replied promptly, figuring saying he was a Sunpriest was just going to ask to be skewered by one of those particularly sharp halberds pointed at him or a few crossbow bolts. “I put out the fire.”

Having some obscure sounding message had been a gamble to make her think he was a long-term undercover operative working for Anur or something along those lines. Thankfully it paid off as she noticeably relaxed, nodding to a smaller man and he darted off to a horse, within moments pounding down the road.

“Are you in any rush?” she asked, “You may put your hands down. Have you eaten?”

“Yes. I must return within three days, if at all possible,” he replied promptly, even a quick glance showing they had far better trail rations than he and his had. That was promising for the chances of a supply run.

“Good, we’re only a few leagues out. You ride alongside me,” she informed him, everyone already putting their weapons away and clearing the brief stop. In moments they were riding out after the messenger at a brisk trot.

They were within sight of the walls when Kir heard familiar laughter, a figure in white riding out to greet them, the Herald crowing, “Sunpriest!” the moment he was in earshot.

“Herald,” he sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as the soldier’s surrounding him tensed and went for their weapons, continuing in Karsite, “Still trying to get yourself set on fire, I see.”

“Hmm?” Anur said, Witch-horse pivoting to pace next to Riva, responding in kind, “What? No, they wouldn’t set me on fire, they don’t have fire-arrows.”

“You’d get in the way of the arrows, which I would set on fire,” Kir replied dryly, and Anur paused, looking between the now relaxing soldiers and Kir for a moment before smiling sheepishly, “Point.”

“So, how have you been? Quitting the priesthood? Set black-robes on fire? Managed to assassinate the Son of Sun?” Anur prompted, hands waving wildly as he came up with more outlandish ideas.

“No, though my unit is getting rather creative with regards to the last,” Kir replied dryly. It was actually a popular drinking game at this point, coming up with ‘clever’ ways to get a new Son of Sun in office.

“No way, they’re not scared witless of you anymore? Ha! Asher was right!” Anur beamed as they came into the actual station, the patrol escorting them dispersing.

“How is Asher?” he obliged, pulling his saddlebags over his shoulder after dismounting, witch-horse leading a happy Riva away to be tended to.

“Good, good. He’s studying at the Temple of the Lord of Light in Haven, seems to want to be a priest himself,” Anur shrugged, “Said he wanted to help bring the true faith back.”

“Well he doesn’t dream small,” Kir mused, before shrugging, “Good to have goals I suppose. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Course. Let’s hit my room, get you some food first though, you look exhausted.”

“You weren’t injured by those Nightstalkers, were you?” Anur asked as they raided the mess hall for sandwich materials.

“By the what?” Kir asked, staring at him askance.

“Oh what did you call them… Furies? The things that attacked right before we got to the border,” Anur shrugged, “We call them Nightstalkers.”

“Nightstalkers,” Kir repeated the strange word carefully, before replying to the question, “Furies, and no, I was not. A few scratches, but nothing serious. Riva and I were both fine, though exhausted by the time we got into barracks that morning.”

“So the universal answer works on them, good to know.”

“Very few things survive getting set on fire,” Kir replied dryly. “It’s sort of the point.”

They arrived in Anur’s small room, the Herald opening the window’s shutters to let light stream in and dragging the table and chair over so he could sit on his bed and Kir could sit across from him. Sighing tiredly, Kir dropped into the chair and let his saddlebags clunk onto the floor, sandwich and apple on the table with a mug of clear spring water.

Anur raised an eyebrow but the silence held as they ate, each of them sitting back with their water once the sandwiches were a memory. “So, what brings you?” Anur asked.

“I am with a unit of fifty men. We have been left to deal with the rogue bandits that are actually Ancar’s army in the district we had before the war. Sending back money and supplies liberated from corpses means Sunhame thinks we don’t need the help, particularly since we send it to refugees rather than to the Son of Sun’s coffers, may he freeze eternally,” Kir swore, Anur clearly jolting in surprise at his cursing of his country’s religious leader, even after the assassination jokes.

“You’re running low.”

“Desperately. We have a month’s worth of food with strict rationing and very few medical supplies. We have a line on medical supplies in Karse, but food – the next supply train will come, at the earliest, in six weeks. More likely two full months. There is a train coming to support a stronger unit a few day’s march south of us, which will arrive in two weeks or so, but that would be intended to support them, so whatever we would be able to get would be their surplus,” Kir laid everything out, looking up at Anur now so the man could see his sincerity and use his witchy powers to detect it if he had too.

“We have the loot from the latest raid,” he said, reaching into his saddlebags and pulling out gems, coin and letters. Judging by the way Anur’s eyes lit up when he saw the Hardornen text on those documents, the military intelligence had been a very good idea to send along. “I brought a sample. Eight mules worth is waiting a half-day from the border, mules included, they’ll be there for three more days before they’ve been instructed to give me up for dead and try their luck with Karsite merchants.”

“Why isn’t that your first choice?” Anur asked, the question clearly hurting him as he tried not to snatch at the documents. Kir smiled and handed them over, the Herald taking them eagerly, giving him a rueful look at Kir’s chuckle.

“Because we’ve had a bad year for harvests, and the majority of Karse’s foodstuffs are grown to the south, where we have to go past Sunhame to get it. It’s not worth the risk of getting the entire train snatched in tribute to the Sunlord and seeing maybe one week’s worth of supplies out of it,” Kir slumped tiredly. “What I have with me, mainly those letters, is yours no matter what in thanks for hearing me out. We have copies.”

Anur opened the letters and read through them hungrily, Kir finishing his water and eyeing the rooms curiously. The ones he had at barracks were bigger, but with the mementos scattered around these rooms were more comfortable. He was surprised to find a Karsite-Valdemaran dictionary on one of the few bookshelves alongside a copy of the Writ. Both looked well-thumbed.

There were a few letters scattered on the small desk, most in the same hand, and he would bet, by the uneven script, they were from Asher. There was a small charcoal stove in the corner, though it stood cool and empty now as the summer was a hot one.

Anur interrupted his inspection by saying, “I can get a lot out of them for these letters. You’re not leaving here empty handed if I have to buy you the goods myself. You have a list of what you need?”

Kir slumped in relief, handing over the list of what they needed and what they offered, written in precise Hardornen since he knew most of Valdemarans would at least know the basics of that tongue.

“I need to go confer,” he said, eyeing Kir worriedly and saying, “Come on, you can steal my bed. Get some sleep, rest, something. You’ll be getting lots of questions later.”

“Thank you, Anur,” he replied, switching places with him and sitting down tiredly as the Herald prepared to leave.

The Herald hesitated, before rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly and asking, “What are friends for? And, um… I’d recommend staying here until I come for you, privy I share with another Herald is through that door, but Griffon is out right now so it should be fine. But word’s probably spread you’re a Sunpriest and, well… yeah.”

 “I’ll keep my prayers quiet,” Kir shot back, startling a laugh out of him, who grinned, “It’s good to see you made it safely. I’ll do my best for your people Kir.”

“Thank you, Anur,” he said quietly, Herald smiling one last time before leaving.

He stretched out on the surprisingly comfortable bed and smiled. Even knowing Anur would probably welcome him, it was a pleasant surprise how easy it had been to make the request. What are friends for indeed.


	2. Changing Winds

Anur was pacing the hall outside the room where the heads of strategy were conferring, Mindspeech conference with the Queen’s party blocking him out intentionally, and just as well because he wouldn’t be much help.

You could have knocked him over with a feather when a messenger came pounding in, shouting that a Karsite had come for Herald Anur. The guards he had been sitting with had been equally shocked, but apparently his expression was too amusing so laughter had won out. When he heard the message and name, he had been absolutely thrilled, though worried. His _Sunpriest_? What on earth was he doing in Valdemar, much less looking for him?

 _:An odd man, still:_ Aelius said thoughtfully, _:He is a firestarter, you know.:_

 _:Funnily enough, I_ do _remember the introduction, long chat with the Weaponsmaster, and diving through live flames without a care to get to me Aelius,:_ Anur retorted, _:Your point – Wait, you mean he has the actual_ Gift? _How? Don’t they burn gif – oh.:_

 _:Yes, burning a firestarter would be problematic. Make them a priest however, and you can burn as many witches as you want,:_ Aelius said sourly. _:I hadn’t realized it, not until we’d spent so much time around Griffon, and even then I might have remembered wrong. But with him here and Griffon nearby, the similarities are clear to see as far as Gifts go.:_

_:Is he a powerful Gifted then? He said he wasn’t a powerful mage, and if he had been more powerful he would have been a Black-robe, but if they think they’re the same thing…:_

_:Actually he’s only a little more powerful than Griffon. I think it really is just practice and careful study of fire. Griffon never really went in depth with his Gift beyond essential control and practice, I don’t think he studied it near as hard as Dinesh did.:_

_:Well he did have stronger motivation to focus on fire,:_ Anur pointed out. _:I’ll have to introduce them. But besides that whole thing, why is he any odder than expected? I mean, I find him odd, he’s a Sunpriest, gave me a cool present and saved my life instead of trying to kill me. But do you have any other reason?:_

 _:He is genuinely frightened by me,:_ Aelius said, _: He could sense me watching him or something, and was genuinely frightened in Hardorn. Later on, he was scared but able to work past it. I don’t think it’s just hypothetical fear of demons, I’m near certain there’s something there that he either doesn’t remember or doesn’t talk about. I was surprised enough he got past that to work with me to save you. But now? He comes into a country he’s raised to see as filled with demons, alone, calls truce and hunts down the one person he knows because his unit is running short of supplies.:_

 _:You make it sound so casual,:_ Anur snorted, _:Fifty men holding the line with only a month’s supplies to last them two at least? Aelius, they may not be truly starving but they are desperate.:_

 _:Do you realize what will happen to him if the authorities find out a Sunpriest saved you, much less went to Valdemar for aid?:_ Aelius demanded bluntly, _:That man is devoted to his people. He’s what a priest is supposed to be. He’d make a good Herald.:_

 _:I think I’ll keep that to myself,:_ Anur replied wryly, _:Doubt he’d appreciate it too much, no matter how complimentary the sentiment.:_

 _:Oh he’d never agree, he loves Karse too much,:_ Aelius brushed off, _:It is simply an observation.:_

Anur paced in silence for a while long, before he couldn’t resist and asked, _:Any ideas how this is going?:_

_:Seems to be more of an argument on what we can afford to give. We will send him with something. The intelligence in those letters was too insightful to their power structure to give him nothing in return, no matter how he says our hospitality is enough. So no need to start pestering people for donations.:_

_:Good._ Good _. Keep me posted.:_

_:Oh just listen at the door, Chosen, really.:_

 ***===***pagebreak***===***

“Up!” Anur shouted, yelping and hitting the floor as a blast of flame shot at his head, Kir rolling off the bed and landing on the floor with a curse. Both of them stared at each other and Kir snorted, “You _really_ want to get set on fire, Herald. I should have just let you burn the rate you’re going.”

“Is the wall on fire?” he asked, rolling his eyes at what he could easily tell would be a running gag between them. Kir waved it off, apparently unconcerned with the scorch-mark that remained on the hallway’s far wall. “It will teach you to knock,” he replied dryly. “What is it?”

“Guess who you get to meet!” he replied cheerfully as they got to their feet.

“If you say the Queen, I am killing you,” the priest said flatly, glaring at him.

Anur blanched, before chuckling weakly, “Of course not!”

“Liar,” Kir sighed, shoulders slumping. “I _hate_ politics.”

“There’s a shower in there, wash up and get clean formal-ish clothes if you can, I’ll lurk in the hall and it won’t be so bad! She just wants to meet you!” Anur hustled him into the privy, Kir grabbing his saddlebags and giving him a dark look, slamming the door shut.

 _:Aelius! Did you catch that? He threw a fireball at my head!:_ Anur gleefully informed his companion. _:No way can Griffon do that!:_

_:Maybe you should focus less on who’s the better firestarter and get to work on reassuring him the queen isn’t going to be trying to execute him. And, just a suggestion Chosen, but finding out someone called the Great Traitor is attending? Not something to leave for a surprise.:_

Anur winced, he had honestly forgotten that part would be a big deal to his Karsite friend. He listened to the sound of running water for a moment, before pounding on the door and shouting, “Herald Alberich will be there too!”

Judging by the vehement curses directed at his ancestry, sexual relations, and some he didn’t know, it was a good thing there was a thick door between the two of them right about now. Kir wrenched the door open a few minutes later, hair damp and wearing a slightly wrinkled and well-worn Firestarter field robe over a cleaner version of the same outfit he’d been wearing, armor and all.

“You really don’t need the armor,” Anur pointed out, wincing at the truly vicious glare he was shot at that, “I mean – it’s nothing formal, it’s just a meeting between… um… potential allies?”

“Potential _what?!”_ Kir roared, tossing his pack against the wall and rounding on him, “You listen here, Herald,” he spat, “I have _no_ authority for _any_ form of negotiations beyond this one time bargain. I am here on the sufferance of my Captain with the understanding that if _any_ of this were to get out I would be renounced as a heretic so my unit might survive without me. I am _also_ absolutely _wretched_ at politics of _any sort_ and you might as well set any potential alliance on _fire_ and mix the ashes with _salt_ as involve me in any way!”

“Okay okay bad choice of words bad choice of words!” Anur hastened to say, waving his hands in what he thought was calming, but made him look frantic. “A meeting between… there’s no way for me to save this, is there?”

“Your hair. On fire. It will happen when you least expect it,” Kir snarled, “And when there is no snow on the ground!”

Anur touched his wavy brown hair and winced. Kir was definitely angry. With good reason, he supposed, but Queen Selenay wanted to meet him and offer thanks, because though he and Aelius hadn’t exactly been _talkative_ about the Sunpriest he had befriended, it was a well-known fact that he had been saved from the Fires by one. Rumors had spawned from there, and Aelius and he had just let them grow, not really feeling comfortable giving so many ridiculously curious people access to a friend’s life and personal situation like that.

So Weaponsmaster Alberich was the only one with full details on his musings, though he suspected the Companion collective knew more than they were letting on thanks to Aelius. As long as they didn’t spread rumors he had to deal with himself, that was fine.

“Herald, what are you doing?” Kir asked flatly, and Anur refocused to realize he had grabbed Kir by the back of his head and pressed their foreheads together. It was something his brother and father had done to get him to stop panicking and realize they were going to get through this together, whatever it might be. He had taken to using it with his close friends, but judging by the still angry gleam in Kir’s eyes now might not be the best time to manhandle him.

“Sorry!” Anur yelped, letting him go and backing away, “It’s um… it’s just something my brother and father did, whenever they needed me to stop panicking and focus because we’d be fine. It’s just a habit.”

The angry gleam faded slightly and Anur sent silent thanks to the powers, because he really didn’t want to get his hair set on fire. He liked his hair the way it was, thank you.

“While I’ll take the reassurance in the spirit it is meant, I am still angry at you, and your hair will still end up on fire one of these days,” Kir informed him dryly, sighing and running his fingers through short-cropped black hair. “It’s nothing truly formal or binding?”

“Right, and they’ll even be speaking Karsite,” Anur offered hopefully.

“Good, my Valdemaran is horrible,” Kir snorted, “Hardornen is much better now that there’s motivation to learn and fast, but Valdemaran has always been a heretic tongue, very difficult to learn safely.”

“Seriously, it’s just a casual-as-possible-when-with-a-monarch chat over… tea? Water? Drinks of some sort,” Anur shrugged, before perking up, “Speaking of drinks, I have your flask!”

“I’ll collect it later,” he said, “Not germane now. Where is this meeting?”

“I’ll take you there,” Anur promised, wincing at the suddenly iron grip that Kir had on his arm, looking over to see the priest wide-eyed and panicked, “You’re not going to be there?”

Anur paused, before smiling slightly, “I can stay, I just – “

“Oh you are not getting out of this, I accidently set something on fire, _you_ get to burn with me,” Kir said, shaky tone vanishing as he turned sardonically amused again, releasing his arm. “Let’s go, then, Herald.”

“Are those the same robes you – yes. I recognize that blood-stain on your sleeve, it’s shaped like a dog, do they not come out? Have you tried soaking in salts?” Anur asked, walking over to the stairs up to the third floor. They were meeting in the Guard Commander’s office.

“We’ve tried everything,” Kir sighed, looking down at the faded stains near the hems of his robes, “And that’s actually four or five bloodstains layered on each other. But they’re not unusable, so I won’t ruin new ones. Besides, it’s this, or full ceremonial robes, and those are heavy, nearly impossible to fight in without collapsing of heat exhaustion even in winter. I just leave them in the unit chapel, I only use them on High Holy Day services. Or when I need to shut someone up.”

“How often does that happen?”

“We’re getting more black-robes visiting, so more often than I’d like,” Kir growled.

Anur opened the door and went in first, probably guessing Kir would freeze up in the doorway if he didn’t have someone to observe that he knew. The Queen was standing at the window, plain Whites dusty from riding, discussing something with the distinctively Karsite man in dark greys next to her. She turned and offered a smile to them both, Anur bowing slightly and Kir simply inclining his head in respect. He was not required to bow before the monarchs of Karse, and he would not grant that courtesy to a foreign one.

“Sunpriest Dinesh,” the Queen said, still smiling as the two guards who had been present exited, shutting the door behind them. It was a nice touch, trying to show trust, but Kir wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted her dead, he’d have two very deadly individuals opposing him immediately and _then_ he’d get to fight his way out of a company’s worth of soldiers and at least three enraged Witch-Horses.

Not his idea of a good time.

“Monarch Selenay,” he replied in kind. Karsite had no word for ‘queen’ that did not have some form of derogatory connotation, so he went for the more general form, even if the subtleties might be lost on her. They would not be lost on the man standing next to her, so the effort was worth it.

“Please, sit. This is simply an informal conference, and a chance to offer my personal thanks for the rescue of our Herald Anur last fall,” she said, good at her own word and taking the seat behind the plain desk. Herald Alberich took a seat on her left, Anur and he both taking the two remaining seats on the other side. “I feel like a school-teacher,” she chuckled, inviting him to share a joke he was in no mood to enjoy, before asking, “I do not wish to offend, is Sunpriest Dinesh the appropriate title?”

“One of, yes. Is Monarch Selenay also appropriate?” he replied, and she nodded easily, a brief glance at her quiet shadow probably indicating a quick explanation of why he used monarch rather than queen.

“And this is Herald Alberich,” she indicated with a genuine smile at the man, who was eyeing Kir as if he were a definite threat. Kir was not offended, the man had more reason than any to be wary of one of his station.

“Herald,” he inclined his head, before pausing, “Or would you prefer Captain?”

“Herald is more than adequate, Sunpriest,” he replied easily, trace of accent marking his home-region. Kir was amused to realize that the same accent left traces on the Queen’s speech. It was clear who her primary instructor in Karsite had been.

“Your request came at a convenient time,” she continued to business, “As a supply train recently arrived which we were simply going to use to supplement our stores. We can send the goods with you instead, and are close enough to our suppliers that we will not have a problem replacing them well-before we run low. I understand these difficulties are primarily due to poor appreciation of your actual supply demands?”

“As we send what little appreciable loot from the Hardornen attackers to the refugees who were displaced rather than to the coffers of Sunhame, it is presumed by those in power that we are keeping it for ourselves to restock our own supplies, which is not the case,” Kir gave the polite version, as the version common to his and the quartermaster’s bitter rants involved far more blasphemy.

Judging by the crinkling of her eyes, she understood the more colorful implied statement as well as if he had said it aloud. He was glad someone could find the situation amusing, it probably would be if he weren’t so certain that he were going to die as a result.

“There is the matter of transport,” she said, “We primarily use wagons, but as there are no roads connecting our nations, those will not be a particularly useful option. We can send pack-beasts, mules, primarily, but from what you were saying your unit does not particularly need more animals to burden your resources?”

“Quite,” Kir confirmed, remembering the route he had taken to get here and the topography he had observed. “Would it be possible to use one wagon, as that would replace a significant number of pack-beasts, and then we could simply unload that on our side of the border and deal with transport ourselves? It would be no great issue to leave some guarding it and going to our unit’s current camp to fetch assistance. That would also avoid the potential issues of soldier’s confronting the reality of who I sought aid from. The hills are not so bad, depending on wagon type.”

“Your unit is aware that you came to Valdemar?” that was Herald Alberich, voice sharp and probably surprised by the mass complicity with his treason.

“Rumors treated as truth,” Kir spoke directly to him, elaborating, “The level of discontent in Karse as a whole is high, and in the Sunsguard, particularly in units like mine which are left to rot for the most part, it is exceptionally so. The Captain, Sergeant and other officers in the group were all complicit from the beginning. I believe they first realized that I was not going to burn them all for expressing opinions after I returned from the failed burning of Herald Anur. At that point an active effort to subvert the entire unit was made, resulting in a unit with exceptionally high tolerance to perceived heresy.”

“All that in a bare seven moons?” the Queen asked, clearly surprised.

Kir was briefly confused by their lack of understanding of the Sunsguard, given Herald Alberich’s former profession, before he realized that the Great Traitor had served pre-Tedrel conflict, which made a very big difference in perspective.

“The Tedrel Wars dramatically changed the perspective the average Karsite had towards the ruling priesthood, and the Sunsguard’s perception of the priesthood even more so,” he explained, “They saw that they were not trusted to fulfill their God’s will, and were bitterly ready to do anything to prove themselves, or they doubted that their God’s will was being ordered. Those prideful, fanatical individuals died in the wars. Those who were left were killed off in the conflict against Menmellith under command of The Prophet. This left a majority of the Sunsguard confirmed skeptics of, if not the Faith, the priesthood. I will admit that it is likely your own informants have better information as to the civilian trends, and also for those stationed further south in the richer lands. But for northerners, left primarily to their own devices and constantly at risk of fresh war?” Kir shrugged, “The fact Sunhame is still accepted as an authority is more for lack of any other viable option than anything.”

“You have been stationed with the guard long, then?” the Queen asked.

“This is my ninth year with the 62nd,” Kir gave a wry smile at Herald Alberich’s clear surprise. “I was a convenient death that never happened, so they have decided to just leave me until the posting does its job.”

“How long is the average posting with the Sunsguard?” Anur asked, and Kir looked over at Herald Alberich with a raised brow. The man nodded shortly and took the question, answering, “The conscripted serve for five years, seven if put through specialized training such as officer’s school. There are options to re-enlist, but few take them up in the enlisted ranks. There are career officers and trainers, but the turnover is high and posts are often switched around, particularly in the higher ranks, to avoid the exact situation Sunpriest Dinesh has described: a unit more concerned with its own survival than fanatical defense of Sunhame’s version of the One Truth.”

“That is a truly wonderful way to put it,” Kir mused, guessing a slightly lowered guard might bring them (Herald Alberich) to consider him less of a threat to Valdemar, “I must use that, rich in connotation.”

“Feel free, Sunpriest,” the Herald replied sardonically, continuing his answer with the conclusion, “Sunpriests are particularly prone to transfers, as Sunhame does not want any one priest to build up a power bloc based upon military strength. I find it truly unusual that your posting was designed to dispose of you quietly, yet they allowed you to stay somewhere where you gained a significant piece of power without interference.”

“It may have something to do with the fact that the politically powerful member of the priesthood I offended in the first place died in a failed Fury summoning two years after my initial posting,” Kir supplied, continuing with a shrug, “After that, it is likely the reason I was assigned was simply forgotten so when the four year limit came up and they were short people to eliminate, they simply left me where I was. I made no moves politically, or tried to make allies with other chaplains, I simply did my duties to my unit and to the priesthood and continued with my life. I am no threat to Sunhame, politically speaking. I do not have the patience for it. The matter which had me assigned there was a personal one.”

“How do you fail a Fury summoning?” Anur asked, sounding torn between amusement and being appalled, “Does it involve setting anything on fire?”

Kir didn’t bother to repress the snort at the reference to what was apparently considered his catch-all solution to problems and said, “I had nothing to do with it, Anur. It was entirely coincidental. It’s the leading cause of death in black-robes, too many grow arrogant and summon too many Furies or skip a step because it is too cold for their delicate sensibilities, and they die in the manner of those they condemned. A fitting end, many feel.”

“Huh, well that’s convenient,” Anur shrugged at the sharp looks he received from Herald Alberich and the Queen, “Just a comment, your Majesty.”

“The one wagon should have enough space for the supplies you requested, with four pack-beasts supplementing. Then it would simply be a matter of escorting it to your people making the swap and departing. How far into Karse is the rendezvous?” the Queen asked, returning the discussion to the actual object of their meeting once more.

“A half-day, probably more with a wagon to set the pace,” Kir replied.

“Very well. It will take us a day to assemble everything. Can you point it out on a map so we can decide on the most efficient route with the drover? Excellent. Herald Anur, I assume you want to accompany the wagon to the rendezvous.”

“Yes Your Majesty.”

“Very well. One driver, Herald Anur, two guardsmen as escort. We don’t want to send too large a force,” the Queen nodded firmly, getting to her feet and the other three all did the same. “Thank you for your clarification, Sunpriest Dinesh. Herald Anur you have been removed from official duty rotation for the duration. We may summon you tomorrow to finalize details, if you could simply indicate on this map where the rendezvous is?”

Kir examined the detailed map of the Valdemar-Hardorn-Karse junction area closely, finally setting a marker down on the spring, named ‘Children’s Spring’ obscurely enough. Herald Alberich huffed quietly in amusement, the Queen also looking amused, but neither shared the joke and instead Kir and Anur left after a nod and bow, respectively.

Kir was just happy to escape without lighting anything on fire.

 “See, nothing caught on fire!” Anur said cheerfully when they were out, echoing Kir’s relief. Kir raised an eyebrow and smirked, Anur yelping and blowing out the small flame that had appeared in his hair. He frowned at him, trimming the burnt pieces off with a knife as they walked down the hall, “I thought you said it would be when I least expected it?”

“Did you expect me to follow through right after talking with your Queen?” Kir replied, raising an eyebrow, Anur’s sheepish expression enough of an answer and he said smugly, “Exactly.”

“Hmph. Fine. Want to meet our Firestarter?” he asked, “Griffon’s out practicing right now.”

“Your Firestarter?” Kir asked, raising an eyebrow, “You Heralds have one?”

Anur paused, before realizing that he’d used the formal priesthood title rather than the object, so there might be some confusion. “Not like you – well, sort of – ah, a witch power. It’s a Gift – um, witch power that lights things on fire,” he explained, “We call people like that firestarters.”

“So there are mind-talkers, fire-starters, and…that thing, sending the letter, what was that called?” Kir asked.

“Well, we call it ‘Fetching’,” Anur waited while Kir carefully pronounced the word, “But I guess Sending would make a decent translation, it gets the idea across. That letter sending was one type, the cloak calling was another. I’m better at the cloak-calling type, where things just move around that are in my line of sight. The other takes a lot more energy and I’m not that powerful a Fetcher.”

“And premonitions,” Kir continued, with a thoughtful nod at Anur’s explanation, ticking them off on his fingers as they exited the building, “And far-seeing.”

“Foresight and Farsight,” Anur replied in Valdemaran, Kir again repeating the words for pronunciation’s sake.

“Hmm. Interesting,” Kir murmured, “We are trained to identify those, but only the mind-speaking immediately condemns. The rest depend on age and the potential for molding them into the priesthood.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Anur said reluctantly, “The others would be easily… warped, I guess is the word I’m looking for.”

“Good as any,” Kir shrugged, “The slight changes of expression indicative of a conversation are the main give-aways, as there is a rhythm and disjoint between the expression and the individual’s likely trains of thought which make it unlikely they are simply thinking to themselves.”

“Are you – huh. Well. Thanks Kir,” Anur recognized the information he was getting straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were, on how they were caught by people who didn’t have any Gifts of their own. It made sense, but he was certain there were some mildly Gifted priests that were able to detect them more easily.

They exited through a pedestrian gate, Anur waving at the guards briefly, Kir eyeing the wall curiously but making no comment. “Where exactly are we going?” he finally asked as they worked their way around to the north side of the walls, where Griffon had claimed some training grounds to practice his firestarting.

“Griffon’s claimed some training grounds for firestarting practice,” Anur explained, using the Valdemaran word to avoid any misunderstanding, “The guard occasionally helps, but it’s mostly just Griffon setting things on fire. He’s trying to increase distance and accuracy most of the time.”

“Hmm. What are the primary targets?” Kir asked thoughtfully, the training grounds in sight now. Griffon was clearly visible with his bright red hair and dusty Whites, two witch-horses standing nearby. One looked up as they neared, turning to trot over and Kir recognized Aelius, grumbling to himself about actually being able to tell the difference between two witch-horses. He’d need to work on that self-burning plan at this rate.

Nearing them, Aelius stopped and looked over at Kir, nodding his head with a whicker of greeting. Sighing, he said, “Hello Witch-horse.”

Glaring at the rude creature, he said in Valdemaran, “Speak in my mind again, and _your_ hair on fire, will be.”

By the snort and tossed head, his point was made. He hoped that he didn’t have to follow through on it, both because of the potential consequences and because he really didn’t want to hear any other voices in his mind _ever_ again. His own mental voice was the only one that belonged there.

“Hello,” the red-haired Herald greeted when they reached him, offering his hand to Kir who shook it briefly, continuing in clearly enunciated Valdemaran, “I’m afraid my Karsite is horrible, so if it is all right to continue in Valdemaran?”

“Practice, use I could,” Kir shrugged, nodding in agreement, before looking at Anur, “Correct way, for that?”

“I could use practice,” Anur supplied. “Subject, verb, object,” he recited in Karsite.

“Ridiculous, that is. Ambiguous too easily,” Kir snorted, turning to Griffon again and asking abruptly, “Firestarter, you are?”

“Only one this generation,” Griffon nodded, “Harevis says you are too?”

“Different, but yes,” Kir replied, nodding briefly at the stranger witch-horse, “Working on what, with this practice, are you?”

“Multiple targets,” Griffon replied, waving his hand at the charcoaled dummies set down range.

“Hmm,” Kir eyed them thoughtfully. Anur asked, “How many are you up to now, Griff?”

“Between three and five,” the other Herald frowned, “It fluctuates. I want to get five consistently.”

“Methodology, explain to me,” Kir requested, “How set alight, do you?”

“Well, ah, this will get technical. Anur might have to translate,” Griffon said, continuing nonetheless as he said, “I started out just sort of glaring at things until they set on fire. Harevis calls it ‘fetching’ flames, so it’s almost like I take flames from somewhere else that already has them, and then make them appear on what I want to set on fire. That’s the basic stage. Later on I started working on things that aren’t really flammable, or at least are difficult to set on fire, and that method didn’t really work, so I had to do some research in the Chronicles.”

By the theatrical shudder, it hadn’t been the most enjoyable experience. Kir was too focused on ensuring he understood what the Herald was saying to appreciate the acting.

“So I found some old records, and La – um. Previous firestarters, described it as making things basically vibrate themselves into flame. I didn’t really understand what that meant, but then I thought about the rubbing two sticks together to get a fire bit – so that heat by rubbing your hands together is the same type of thing. So now I use a variation of that to make things flame, but it takes a bit longer than the just flame-fetch method to get going with flammable materials, but it works a lot better than the other method with non-flammable materials.”

“Flammable, non-flammable, how define?” Kir asked, “Examples?”

“Straw, wood, peat, coal – things like that I call flammable,” Griff frowned thoughtfully, “Metals, stone, those are non-flammable. But there are also things like – well, like the mage constructs Ancar sends after us sometimes, they’re flammable eventually, but it’s a lot of work to get them there, really tiring for me, so I call them non-flammable. The first time around I got five and some mages before collapsing. I can do three without feeling too tired now, we haven’t gone against five again.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Kir murmured, eyeing the targets thoughtfully. “Sense it, can you?”

“Err… sense what?” Griffon asked, both he and Anur looking terribly curious.

“Turn around, tell me which targets are fired. No cheating, witch-horse,” Kir said sternly, pointing at Harevis, who snorted and bobbed his head. Griffon turned around and shut his eyes to concentrate, Anur watching, fascinated, as Kir set four of the seven targets alight with a simple twitch of his fingers. He would bet Kir could set them off with a glance, but used the minor gestures to make it easier or less alarming.

“Err… the furthest left, front line. The middle one, second line. That one leaning against a tree – maybe? And… that’s it?” Griffon ended with a question, Kir raising an eyebrow and asking, “Certain, are you?”

“Uh… yes. Yes, those three.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Kir repeated, “Turn around, you can.”

Griffon turned around and frowned, “Huh. Missed that far right one. Maybe it overlapped with the tree one?”

“Possible. Try setting the one next to it alight, and the one behind the first. Separately,” Kir chided when Griffon immediately focused, “Carefully. Tell me difference, if there is one.”

Anur felt that odd, hair-raising sensation he usually did around Griffon when he used his Gift and the first one Kir indicated burst into immediate, violent flame.

“Woah!” Griffon yelped, jumping and staring with wide eyes, “What was _that_?”

“Difference, there is?” Kir had an amused smirk on his face and Griffon turned, waving his arms in the air as he cried, “Of course! That was the amount of focus I use to lightly scorch one of those things, and the entire thing is on fire now!”

“Tell what difference was, besides focus power? What made focus power less?” Kir clarified, all the flames vanishing with a curt gesture. The one Griffon had set off was crumbling to ash now.

“Those were iron-wood dummies,” Griffon said, staring incredulously at the damage he’d unintentionally done. “Those things are _hard_ to burn to ash! What did you do?!”

“Bah. Rubbing heat close, but not enough,” Kir informed him bluntly, “Must think smaller. What rubbing against, when light on fire? Air?”

Griffon blinked, eyes going distant as he thought, “Never thought about it. I guess… I guess it would be air, what else is there?” he frowned, “But that’s not right, is it?”

“Right,” Kir nodded, before frowning and clarifying, “Right, that it is wrong. Warm things, can you? Without setting on fire?”

“You can _do that_?!” Griffon asked gleefully, “No! That would be so useful! Warm bath water all the time, no more soaking boots in snow,” he waxed rhapsodic, “No hypothermia for me!”

“And warm cloaks for everyone who travels with you,” Anur said wistfully, Kir simply snorting at the two of them.

“Water warming, from cold, difficult. From warm to hot, easier,” Kir informed him, but Griffon waved it off, dreaming of waystation runs with piping hot baths even in Sorrows winters.

“Come, need less distance,” Kir said, walking towards the dummies. Anur halted him with a hand on his arm, “Don’t bother,” he said cheerfully, curling his own fingers at a still whole dummy easily and sending it flying towards them, “I’ll get it.”

“You just want to show off,” Griffon snorted, Kir raised an eyebrow at Anur, wondering what the point of this blatant witch-power use was. Anur muttered in Karsite, “Figure easiest way to assure people you won’t set Gifted on fire is by blatantly using it in front of you with no reaction. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Keep mind-talking away from me,” Kir replied in kind, “And we will have no problems.”

The dummy settled in front of them and Kir crouched next to it, Griffon joining him and Anur sitting across from them curiously. The two witch-horses peered over their respective Heralds’ shoulders, clearly interested in the explanation he was going to give.

Kir felt his remaining worries from the meeting with the Queen and Captain Alberich fade. He had always found fire soothing, and discussing technicalities was always enjoyable. It was one of the things he missed from his acolyte years, debating techniques with his teacher and fellows. He had kept a lot of it close to his chest, though, not wanting to grant some of the more vicious of their number greater abilities even then, so being able to discuss his work freely with someone who would appreciate the effort he’d put into it was nice.

“Place hand on dummy,” he ordered, echoing his words in action and both Heralds obeying immediately. He carefully poked at the very faint buzzing coming from the object, ‘feeling’ the pitch start to increase slowly. He usually did this too fast for any noticeable delay between his focus and the flames, but right now he needed them to observe what he had done.

“Woah!” Griffon murmured, “That’s really warm now – is that what you did? Warmed that one and then asked me to set it off?”

“Essentially, yes,” Kir nodded. “How I did it, tell can you?”

He grimaced, and looked over at Anur, who grinned and corrected, “Can you tell how I did it.”

“Yes, that,” Kir said, nodding and returning his focus to Griffon.

“Can you do it again?” Griffon asked hesitantly, keeping his hand on the dummy. Kir nodded and let them settle again, pulling them back into their former state so they didn’t have to wait long. Judging by the way both Heralds jumped, they could detect the cooling clearly.

He then carefully prodded the humming he could hear clearer now that he was almost wholly focused on it. It was interesting to find that it was actually a bit lower than the wood he usually worked with. He could see why it would be difficult to burn to ash using surface flames.

“Hmm,” Griffon said as it heated up again. “Again, slower if you can?”

Kir nodded, though the man had his eyes closed now and couldn’t see it, and repeated the process, Anur clearly fascinated as he watched the pair of them. “Is that… humming?” Griffon asked with a frown, “A really, really faint vibration – I can’t, I can’t _feel_ it but it’s… it’s there?”

“Small things, too small to see even with special lenses,” Kir agreed. “Rubbing _those_ together, much easier to light on fire. Increase buzzing, increase warmth. Increase quickly, and flames.”

He drained the energy again before thrusting it into the dummy, flame igniting on the chest and sending both Heralds jumping away with yelps. Kir chuckled and doused it, sitting back on his heels. “Sense, it makes?”

“Yes!” Griffon beamed, before frowning, “Really precise though, my control is good but – not _that_ good. This is going to be hard.”

“Witch-horse watching energy,” Kir waved, having felt those eyes on him as soon as he started working with flames, “Can tell when use too much.”

Griffon brightened at that, Harevis snorting, before Griffon chuckled and said, “Our word for them is Companions.”

“Companion,” Kir repeated, before scowling at Aelius, “You, witch-horse still.”

The expression on the horse’s face could only be described as wounded, Anur and Griffon both bursting into laughter, Harevis also whickering in amusement.

“For now, practice, want you?” Kir asked, and Griffon nodded immediately, leaning forward as if to touch the dummy and Kir wrenched him back, Anur also scrambling away from it at his sudden reaction.

“No touch, you use,” Kir said, wide-eyed, “Burn yourself, with no control. Try with non-flammable – true non-flammable. Rock, or metal, to start warming in hand. Try warming with wood, no control? Great, great flames.”

Griffon was pale at his explanation, Anur shuddering at the mental image. “Right,” Griffon said shakily, staring at the dummy, “Right. Let’s stand a bit further back then, shall we?”

“Good plan. Herald’s not all to set selves on fire, I see,” Kir chuckled and Anur groaned, Griffon just raising an eyebrow but letting it pass. He could always tear it out of Anur later, and right now he wanted to pick this firestarter’s brain.

“Maybe we could use some more water,” Anur said a few minutes later, Griffon and he slowly picking themselves off the ground from where they had ducked flying flaming pieces of wood. Kir had lashed out and cut the wood flying at him in half with hot flames, before snuffing them and simply leaving flying pieces of wood to dodge.

“Good idea is. Further away, also, might be good,” Kir replied ruefully. “Apply to enemies, not recommend. Messy, it is.”

“… oh, _gross_ ,” Griffon moaned at the idea, “You can _do_ that?”

“Idiot tried to warm self with technique in winter,” Kir said honestly, remembering that other acolyte with a wince. “Very, very messy.”

He had never been able to actually replicate that, so he was fairly certain the acolyte in question had been using mage-power and a different set of spells, but it would at least keep them from being reckless with it. The most he could manage when he tried was the target bursting into white-hot flames in moments – it was his primary distance technique for battles now.

“Eewww,” both Heralds shuddered, Companions echoing the reaction.

Hmm… steam expanded, blood was liquid and intestines were full of such fluids. If he boiled them to steam _quickly,_ near instantly, maybe that would result in the explosion?

The fact he was considering how to practice this was not something which would endear him to the Valdemarans, he thought. Even his own men might find it too much, but he would give it some thought.

Some blood to practice boiling quickly would be easy enough to collect at least.

“Right, I’ll go get some water with Aelius,” Anur volunteered, swinging up onto his witch-horse’s bare back and trotting away to fetch extra water.

“So any tips on simultaneous firestarting?” Griffon asked, Kir frowning and asking, “Maybe. How do it, you?”

“How do you do it,” Griffon corrected, “And I just sort of focus on them all at once and make them burst into flame.”

Kir sighed, and Griffon grinned sheepishly, “There’s a better way?”

“There’s a better way,” he agreed.

Selecting his targets, he slowly prodded their energies until three dummies were coated in crackling flames, much more gradually than he usually did. “Focus on smaller things allows for focus on one _type_ of firestarting, simply _location_ focus. Material matter not except in amount of time for fire to catch. Get practiced enough, can increase vibrations across materials so simultaneous flames in different materials easy.”

“Man, I will definitely have to work on this,” Griffon sighed, “Might need to wait for winter to make real progress though, then at least we get a bit of a break from Ancar.”

“Your way works,” Kir shrugged, “But not most efficient.”

“So what do you mostly use you-“

The question, which Kir could tell he wouldn’t particularly want to answer honestly, was interrupted, Griffon cutting himself off and gaining a distant look. Kir wryly noted that he wasn’t even flinching at evidence of witch-powers anymore, even the mental ones which were truly disturbing. So long as they didn’t bother him, he didn’t care. The things war could change.

Aelius pounded up behind, fully saddled and Anur offered Kir his long-knife, apparently having gone to saddle the Companion and grab Kir’s longer weapon instead of getting water. “We’ve gotten a call, a squad with constructs crossed the border again,” Anur explained in Karsite, “Griffon’s going out, thought you might want to come along to see his firestarting in action.”

“Riva would not keep up, I suppose?” Kir sighed, strapping the knife to his side and taking Anur’s arm, swinging up to sit behind him in a smooth motion.

Griffon just sprang onto Harevis’ bare back and shrugged at Anur’s raised eyebrow, “I literally peer over a hill and set things on fire. Guard meeting us?”

“Already there, we’re back-up,” Anur replied, the two witch-horses springing into motion.

Kir idly wondered if this ‘take the Karsite Sunpriest to battle just to see what happens’ was more that tacitly approved. He couldn’t imagine that he was trusted enough to do so, but for him to be involved in a battle which was already initiated against a common enemy with two witch-horses to monitor him – well, that would be an invaluable opportunity to see just what kind of firestarting he used in battle.

He somewhat doubted Anur had been involved in that sort of plotting from the beginning, the Herald didn’t strike him as the type, but the fact that as soon as they took a break from practicing another opportunity for him to reveal his tricks came up? Very convenient, and therefore, very suspicious.

At least this time the maneuverings around him that would normally infuriate him were in fact supplying him with firestarting opportunities. And it was something he would have done anyways, it was simply too convenient for their ends to be a coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has Kir basically become a Firebender in Velgarth? Yes. Yes he has. But that’s because he adjusts things at the super tiny (basically molecular) level, and has intensively studied fire. He started as a firestarter like Griffon, not even as powerful (Aelius was wrong, more on that later), but with nothing to really distract him and being encouraged to light anything he wanted on fire so long as he could pay for it or come up with a heresy excuse, he made a lot more progress. He’s also been doing this since he was kidnapped by the priesthood at 7 or 8, so he’s got nearly twice the years on Griffon (details to come).
> 
> I hope his abilities and the logic behind them are believable. When I read Brightly Burning and Lavan described the ‘vibrating faster until it burst into flames’ approach, I was like “TELEKINESIS AT THE ATOMIC LEVEL!!!!” but it never went anywhere. Kir is my answer to that.
> 
> FYI, if I could pick one super power? Telekinesis with a weight limit of twice my own. I’d be way more interested in telekinesis at the molecular level than in making semi-trucks fly. But twice my own, because then I could fly.


	3. The Definition of Witch

It was a half-mark later when they reached the site, Kir surprised to find the Guard in a holding pattern with the forced conscripts, but he spotted the constructs and Levin-bolts flying and sighed. It appeared mages were more active against Valdemar. It made sense, as Valdemar had no true counter to mages beyond what they worked out with their witch-powers, but it added some complexity to his normal strategies.

Who was he kidding? His strategies could be summed up in the motto of the Firestarter Order, “Set them on fire!”

“I really shouldn’t have practiced so much today,” Griffon sighed, going distant eyed and a few moments later one of the constructs burst into flame. Kir shuddered at the force Griffon was putting into it, detectable even for him: he was putting far, far too much energy into it. If he ever got to Kir’s standard of control he would be truly unstoppable.

He asked, “Mages?”

Griffon grimaced, “Sometimes, I’m trying. But they’re starting to learn to block it, and the constructs are more immediately dangerous and they take me long enough as it is.”

“Ah. Shielding from firestarting. Ingenious,” he muttered, a practiced glance towards the construct setting its head aflame, heat and fire soon spreading to the rest of the corpse. He watched calmly as it toppled into the Hardornens and he prodded at the fire, urging it to spread from body to body until he reached the point where Valdemaran’s were at risk, where he crushed it to embers, choked off screams fading quickly. He could put out the remains of his fires completely when it was over.

Both Herald’s shuddered and Kir sighed, sliding off Aelius’ back. “I will find point to deal with mages,” he informed them both, walking away before they could object.

It truly was a small batch of Hardornens, Kir mused, heading around the edges of the battled clearing. There were maybe fifty men total, around a third dead now, far fewer than Ancar usually threw even against Karse at one time. He could not determine the benefit of this, unless it was simply to distract Valdemar and constantly bleed them and their resources, but even then he must be losing so very many of his people at this point, he’d bleed his own land dry before he won at this rate.

But maybe he was counting on the Valdemaran’s lack of mages and unwillingness to be similarly brutal and self-destructive, he reflected, glaring at one of the soldiers who got too close and setting him alight. He swooped down and picked up the rough-hewn sword, it was a poor piece of steel but would work for his purposes.

He let his gaze slip into mage-sight with the ease of long practice. It was useless in determining witch-powers at a glance, but it let him easily locate the power center of the mage group. He frowned, eyeing strings binding every one of the soldiers to some point far behind the border. He had read about these sorts of enchantments, but had not seen them before in person. With no mages immune to distance burning going against Karse, he had no reason to examine the Hardornen forces with mage-sight.

The feeling of being watched returned and he grimaced. The Witch-horses again. Probably watching at their Herald’s behest this time, but he could do without the distractions.

Blood-magic. It explained why these soldiers were throwing their lives away so easily – it was not just terror for what was left behind, they were probably unable to even think of it, bound solely to the power-holder’s will. Disgusting. _This_ was the reason for a Purifying Flame. _This_ was the sort of witch he had sworn to burn. And they were out of his reach.

But some threads were bound to the mages with the squad, the three of them in the back near the unbound officers. And even were there not, working with a blood-mage willingly tarred them with the same brush, as it was doubtful they had not at least tasted that stolen power. Time to follow his Oaths.

“By the Will of Vkandis,” he intoned, running his hand over the metal of the blade he had grabbed and heating it to the point it was faintly glowing, he flexed his hand over the thin insulation of the leather wrapped grip and exhaled slowly, eyeing the formation around the mages for weak spots. They were all focused on the Valdemarans fighting their way towards them and Griffon, who had continued pursuing the constructs.

One mage glanced briefly over to him, the witch freezing as they locked gazes, and Kir smirked. Drama, while out of place in heated battle, was a key part of witch-hunting. So much of it was an imposition of will that the art of dramatic timing was a valuable one to know.

Charging forward, he kept their eyes locked and just smiled, using the heated metal of the sword to increase the temperature of the air with his swing, making it easier to ignite in blasts of flame that seared the lungs of those unfortunate enough to get in his way. The witch was weak-willed, or overcome with shock at opposition, and only opened his mouth to call an alert when Kir was within reach of heated air.

Having that physical medium transferring elevated heat meant he was not blocked by the anti-witch-powers warding they had constructed. The medium being something as life-giving as air meant it was not blocked by their protections against physical weapons.

The witch burned, shadow in the flame twisting into a soundless howl, air burned from the wretch's lungs so he heard no screams. The boundary could not block people either, as that would keep their bodyguards and blood-power sources in the form of soldiers from reaching them, so Kir was able to pass through and split the flame pillar from the burned witch now that he was within the warding and sent them roaring around the boundary’s edges. The second mage was quickly consumed and had been the only one left holding the barrier, leaving him with the master mage, woman’s eyes wild as she shrieked, blood-bound slaves responding to her like she held their reins and turning away from their current fights to focus on him.

It left many dead, as the Valdemarans quickly took advantage and killed their now essentially disarmed opponents, but enough were able to run towards him to be an inconvenience.

It was what he was unsure of how to explain to Griffon – living creatures had enough energy within them that the effort it took to ignite them was fairly minimal. Humans, with their constant elevated activity he held was part of the soul, had an exceptionally low ignition point. It was not something one learned innocently.

A focused swirl of the still heated blade gave enough momentum to his energy transfer to flare the still burning corpses’ flames into those approaching. It still left some pursuing him, but they were not his concern, as the Valdemaran guard had quickly realized their opponent’s purpose and were taking them down single-mindedly. He did not want to set his recent allies alight.

He also knew better than to let a mage speak – they often needed some form of invocation, particularly for blood magic, and the time it took to speak was all they might need to work a spell. Instead, he had reached for her heat-core, located in the abdomen, and _twisted_.

She went rigid, eyes widening and genuine fear appearing, and he dispassionately let her realize her death before flaring, flames igniting so quickly that they did not actually burn through her skin before they expanded up her throat, igniting the air in her mouth as she froze with her head thrown back in the rictus of a scream. He let it settle, the unnatural flame vanishing without him prodding it into life, and the almost unmarred corpse hit the ground.

“Witch,” he spat at the corpse, turning to the Hardornen soldiers. Though the woman ordering them was dead, they were still enthralled by the power behind the border, continuing their last orders in a doomed effort. There were only six left alive, all subdued by the guards but still struggling. It was probably more of an effort to keep them alive at this point, with how they were willing to throw themselves on blades to get to him.

“Enthralled, they are,” he said in Valdemaran, “Holder of thrall behind border. Nothing to be done.”

“Herald?” one of the Guard asked, looking over Kir’s shoulder. Aelius picked his way among the corpses to stand by him, Anur looking down and asking, “Nothing, Kir?”

“If you took them prisoner, locked them in stone cells with nothing but their clothes and fed them gruel and water twice a day by your Fetching, they would bash their own brains against the walls in an effort to break through the wall to obey their last orders, which were to kill me and defend the dead mage,” Kir informed him bluntly in Karsite. “The one holding them under such orders is behind the border a significant distance. With multiple days I could _possibly_ find them and _possibly_ kill them, at great risk to myself and very low chance of success.”

Anur closed his eyes briefly, probably giving some quiet prayer of his own, before turning to the guard and saying roughly, “There is truly nothing to be done.”

“Very well,” the guard nodded, and ceased their efforts to keep the Hardornen’s alive. They immediately skewered themselves trying to get past the wall of guardsmen to reach Kir.

“How could they do that?” Anur asked in Valdemaran, “What sort of magic _is_ that?”

“Witchcraft, the type my order was formed to fight,” Kir said with a heavy sigh in Karsite, recalling the old history he had dredged up in Sunhame libraries’ forgotten and ill-attended sections. He tried not to think on it too much, even when his attention was not taken up by war. It was simply depressing, to see how far the priesthood, his own Order especially, had fallen.

“All right, you and Herald Griffon are?” he asked in Valdemaran, to cut down on misunderstandings amongst the guardsmen now listening.

“Neither of us got very involved in the fighting,” Anur shrugged, “Griffon was taking care of the constructs, I was making sure nothing go through to him. Are you all right? No injuries?”

“He set them all on fire too fast!” one of the guards said, and Kir nodded with a slight smile, “I am fine Herald. Assistance, in body disposal, I offer.”

Anur got a distant look and Kir ignored the mind conversation, turning back to the mage’s corpse and examining it with mage-sight. There were a few tokens of power he didn’t want to touch, they were that rusty red color of blood magic.

“Touch the mages, do not. Traps they may have set,” he informed them, using his now cooled sword to drag the talismans of power away from the body. Hers at least should be searched for useful information. He went to all the mages, dragging the talismans away into a neat pile with his sword. The head-mage had the most, unsurprisingly, the other three only had five between them, while she had six of her own.

Humming reflective hymns, he dragged the bodies away from the talismans and waved the guard and Heralds clear of the circle, lighting them on fire from a safe distance and pleasantly surprised when they all simply burned normally without any evidence of trapping.

“Clear now, of mage traps,” he informed the guard, dropping the now-useless sword. The group expertly searched the higher ranked corpses for letters and intelligence and stripped all of them for useful weapons (very few) before making piles.

Griffon finally rode up, swaying slightly in his seat and looking pasty in a way which wasn’t fully accounted for by exhaustion, Kir watching him in concern. He shook his head and said, “Rest, you will. I can burn pyres.”

The redhead nodded faintly, Anur still deep in his silent conversation. Kir turned to a nearby guard and asked, “Standard pyres, you have? Ah – “

“How do we want the pyres burned?” the guard he asked translated with a slight smile, “We make piles and, depending on how tired Herald Griffon is, we either build them up with wood and set them alight the old-fashioned way, or we do whatever we can to make it easier on Herald Griffon. As you are the firestarter, how would you like the pyres set up?”

Kir followed the accented speech with some difficulty, but managed to get the point, nodding and saying, “Fuel beyond bodies, wood, grasses, whatever available, preferred. Two to one, with bodies, is fine, but more appreciated.”

“Right,” the man nodded, looking over at someone with a slightly nicer uniform and engaging in rapid Valdemaran, too rapid for Kir to follow beyond guess-work. Whatever he said, it resulted in the group of able-bodied not tending to wounded splitting, half continuing with the corpses and the other half scrounging for fuel. Kir went to help with the fuel gatherers, not sure what exactly the Valdemarans were looking for in corpse-looting and not wanting to risk the appearance of stealing military secrets the Valdemarans might have found otherwise.

He soon stopped to help in building the actual pyres, Anur finally out of his conversation and helping with corpse carrying. Griffon was sitting under a tree with the two witch-horses standing over him, the unit’s medic currently checking him over and plying him with fluids.

 ***===***pagebreak***===***

Anur was trying very, _very_ hard not to think about the casual way Kir had devastated the small Hardornen force with his flames, and trying even _harder_ to not think of the spat, “Witch” directed at the dead woman. He knew Kir considered her a different type of witch from the kind the Heralds were considered, but the word, said in that hateful, burning tone brought up memories he was still struggling to work through.

And the way she had just _died_ , mouth shooting out flames and collapsing – he shuddered even as he dropped another corpse into the second pyre being built. It had been _fast_ , he’d give it that, no anticipation or tortured screaming, but the unmarked body, just dying when Kir had made a simple gesture, was highly disturbing.

“Sir, just who is that?” one of the guard, who he had worked with before, asked in a low voice as they briskly searched the next body and lifted it by shoulders and feet.

“My friend,” Anur said firmly, before offering a weak smile, “Just haven’t seen his gifts in violent action before. He’s Kir Dinesh, saved my life more than once.”

 _:How’s Griffon doing?:_ he asked Aelius, the corpses finally done being sorted and fuel-gathering gaining speed.

 _:Tired, he’s going to have a bad headache later, he’s developing one now,:_ Aelius sighed, _:He and Kir have the same Gift, but very different focus. Kir has developed to be very precise and efficient, Griffon is still at the overpowering strength stage so he tires faster.:_

 _:And it’s worked for now,:_ Anur acknowledged, seeking out Kir in the crowd. He was easily found, slightly faded red-robes easy to pick out in Valdemaran blue. _:The relief crew on their way?:_

 _:Healers, Heralds and soldiers,:_ Aelius confirmed, _:Very nearly here, ten minutes at most. Harevis wants to get some willowbark into Griffon before trying to take him back to the station.:_

 _:Right,:_ Anur said, making his way over to where Kir was examining the first pyre critically.

“Relief force of Healers, Heralds and soldiers are within minutes,” he said, loudly enough that the guard could hear too and the news spread quickly. “This one ready to burn?”

Kir shrugged, before casting Anur a wary look that hurt a little, to see directed at him, “Yes. Few words, I can say?”

That took a while to work through even Anur’s decent botched-Valdemaran translator, but he got it and said, “I don’t mind.”

Kir nodded and turned to the pyre, keeping his voice low and speaking Karsite, “May you be welcomed into the next life and find peace. Rest easy in the knowledge those who condemned you will be crushed.”

The first pyre very quickly caught alight, flames licking up the sides and burning only slightly faster than a normally set pyre would. Anur actually felt his lips twitching at the prayer, and he joked, “Not set on fire?”

Kir snorted, “Never promise a death that might not happen. Set on fire is too specific, crushed can mean different things, so long as they suffer or die, it is fulfilled.”

Before the second pyre was finished, the relief force arrived, the small force of Healers immediately heading for the rough infirmary along with helpers, while others headed for the majority of the standing group and took up their job in gathering fuel, sending those who had fought to rest. With the refreshed numbers, the second and last pyre was built up quickly and Kir shooed the builders back, lighting it with a similarly murmured prayer.

“Return, to barracks we must?” Kir asked and Anur nodded, leading the way back to Griffon. “I gave a basic rundown when I checked on the relief force’s location,” he explained, “But Griffon overextended himself with practice and this unexpected clash, so he needs to get back.”

Kir eyed the weakly protesting Herald as a Healer fussed over him, asking, “Stay on horse, can he?”

“Probably not,” Anur acknowledged, asking Aelius, _:Can you take Kir? Is that all right?:_

 _:He is no great burden,:_ Aelius assured him, _:He is a friend, and has ridden me before.:_

 _:That was an emergency,:_ Anur felt obliged to point out, _:So I thought I might as well ask.:_

 _:Well thank you Chosen, but if I was going to be picky I wouldn’t have let him ride behind you either,:_ Aelius replied with amusement.

“I’ll be riding with him on Harevis, Aelius will carry you,” Anur relayed, Kir only nodding at the information. “But I could probably use your help getting him up there,” he said, watching as Griffon struggled to stand without swaying.

Kir chuckled and strode forward, catching Griffon around the waist and nodding at the Healer, who released the Herald with a sigh and shake of his head, walking away now that he knew someone was there to watch over the hard-headed Herald. “Can walk,” Griffon mumbled, Anur snorting.

Kir and he lifted Griffon up onto Harevis’ back over his protests of capability, Kir steadying him while Anur leapt up behind, wrapping an arm around Griffon’s waist and tangling his fingers in Harevis’ mane. “Will witch-horse’s tack not switch?” Kir asked, Anur shaking his head, not feeling like explaining that it wasn’t just the size difference to be concerned with. It wasn’t any great hardship to ride a Companion bareback anyway, they wouldn’t be racing. The priest shrugged and went over to the waiting Aelius, mounting up easily.

Anur sighed, Harevis leading the way back to the compound. He had just wanted to see the differences between Kir and Griffon’s capabilities in combat, and this conveniently-timed alert had seemed a good way to do so. He hadn’t expected the results to be anything which would alarm him and drive a wedge between himself and Kir.

Griffon had finally faded into sleep, slumped against Anur and snoring slightly, when he finally broke the silence they’d been riding in. “Kir?”

“Yes?” Kir replied in Valdemaran, sounding tired.

“Do you… what do you mean, when you call someone a witch?” Anur asked, mouth dry as he waited for an answer, not looking at his friend for a moment.

Harevis stopped and Aelius sidestepped so Kir could reach over and rest a hand on his shoulder, Anur looking over at him and meeting worried grey eyes. “Ach, I’m sorry Herald,” he said in Karsite, “I forgot you would have heard such a curse before. She was a blood-mage, using the power of others gained in bloodshed and pain to make up for her own weakness rather than using what the Sunlord gave her. They gain their strength from torture, death, and blood-sacrifice, mostly unwilling. _That_ is what I mean, when I say she is the witch my order was meant to burn.”

Anur shuddered, eyes shutting briefly and surprised to find Kir pulling his head in so their foreheads rested against each other as he had earlier in the day. He kept his eyes shut and let Kir’s words wash over him, conviction clear in his voice as he said, “You, friend, are in no way a witch. You are a Herald, a pillar of virtuous justice you once said, and shall never be worthy of putting to the flames.”

There was a brief pause, before Kir continued dryly, “And I say witch-horse with utmost respect and affection.”

Aelius and Anur both snorted at that, Anur opening his eyes and smiling, pulling away to straighten on Harevis’ back and Kir resettling in Aelius’ saddle, a small smile on his own face. They sat in an easy silence now, before Anur chuckled, “Pillar of virtuous justice? That was the sheep story, wasn’t it.”

“Quite,” Kir replied, the two of them sharing a reminiscent laugh as the Companions started jogging towards the barracks again.

They reached the barracks and all conscious members of the party sighed in relief. “Is it really still three marks till sunset?” Kir muttered, “This day has felt much, much longer.”

Anur eyed the lowering sun incredulously, “That it has,” he agreed. “Wow. Did you really only arrive this morning?”

“Chaos follows you, Herald. Never restful day when around,” Kir concluded in Valdemaran, the Companions taking them all the way to the doors of the building holding the Heralds quarters. He dismounted first and helped Anur get down with Griffon, waving him away saying, “I will tend to witch-horse and Companion, if no objection.”

The two Companions both snorted and bobbed their heads, leading the way to the loose-boxes set aside in the stables for them. Hostlers handed him grooming equipment and took Aelius’ tack from him since he didn’t know where it went, but left him to briskly brush down the Companions, both leaning into the strokes happily. He returned the brushes and left the stables, feeling the day’s length start to wear on him. He managed to find Anur’s room without having to ask for directions and opened the door to find the Herald stretched out on his bed, boots off and arm flung over his eyes.

At the sound of the door opening, one eye peered out from under a dusty sleeve and he waved at him idly, “Kick your boots off and get over here. Bed’s not that small, and if I’m tired you must be exhausted.”

Kir nodded wearily, draping his robe over the chair he had sat in earlier that day, removing his light-weight scouting armor before sitting down on the bed to wrestle his boots off. He stretched out next to Anur with a sigh, lacing his fingers together on his stomach and staring up at the ceiling.

“Nice Sun-in-Glory,” Anur commented drowsily, “Thought you’d set that horsehair on fire, honestly.”

“Too nice to burn,” Kir yawned, “Didn’t get struck by lightning when I finished it, so figured it was fine.”

Anur snickered, silence falling as they both drifted out of consciousness, last conscious thoughts running along very similar lines: wishes for a calmer tomorrow.


	4. Leaving on a Pack Train

Their wishes were mostly fulfilled, the next day taken up in consultations on route, idle queries, and one more nerve-wracking meeting with the Queen.

“Sunpriest Dinesh, Heralds,” the familiar voice said in Valdemaran, the three of them looking up from the table in the mess where Kir and Griffon had been struggling to exchange technical tips across language barriers. She waved them down when they started to rise, taking a seat next to Griffon and across from Anur, Kir straightening in his seat nevertheless.

“I’ve only a few more questions for you, Sunpriest Dinesh,” she said, expression concerned, “The first is related to your request for supplies. Do you think this situation will be repeated?”

“Possible,” Kir said easily, before hesitating and allowing, “Probable. Sunhame… is not pleased, that we send little to their coffers in comparison to that sent to refugees. And the Captain and I are neither political.”

He almost growled at the last sentence, knowing something had gone wrong with it, Anur muttering to him, “Neither the Captain nor I are political.”

He nodded thanks, the Queen looking thoughtful before she continued carefully, “Would it be presumptive to include a carrier pigeon in the supply train, with the understanding that you use it to send word as to if your Captain is agreeable to more regular communication between our two groups?”

Kir kept his expression blank as he waded his way through the clauses, before replying with equal care, “No, so long as response either way understood to be possible.”

“Of course,” the Queen graced him with a smile at that, some tension easing and she continued, “The next matter is more technical I am afraid, Herald Griffon would you be offended if we switched languages?”

“Not at all your Majesty, I’ll just listen in with Anur,” Griffon nodded, Kir restraining the visceral twitch at the reference to mind-powers and waiting for the Queen’s question.

“You called the mages of Hardorn blood-mages,” she said in fluent Karsite, Kir relieved to be back in a language he knew the nuances of. “We have only bare records of such people in our Chronicles, and all very far back where translation errors might occur. Could you please explain those and the difference between regular mages?”

Blinking at the relatively simple request, he clarified, “You also want details on how mages work, or would this be confined to blood-mages?”

“Insight into both groups would be much appreciated, but blood-mages, being Ancar’s primary force of mages, are far more critical,” the Queen replied with a nod.

“Hmm… what do you know of general mages? Where they get their power, classification standards – do you hold any knowledge of that?” Kir asked, wondering exactly how ignorant these people were of the forces their surrounding nations held as matter of course. How was it Valdemar had not been invaded by a purely mage-force? There must be _something_ keeping it from being a viable option.

“All our knowledge is woefully out of date, I’m afraid,” the Queen said ruefully, “It might be best for you to simply assume we know nothing of mages outside of Ancar’s groups’ capabilities.”

How had this country not been overrun with hostile mages?

“Mage-powers more versatile than Gifts,” Kir began, “But more energy intensive, from what I understand. Also they are not as… skilled, in one area. Mages must train broadly, not focused on one particular ability or talent. Also, mage-powers are as a whole considered easier to ward against. This is not necessarily true, but most wards are targeted towards mage-powers.”

“Classifying mages is done by the amount of power they can draw in safely,” Kir continued, starting to illustrate his points with gestures as he began to forget the rank disparity between himself and the woman he was talking to.

“Being limited to personal power stores leads to label of hedge-witch. Some of these can gather energy from dispersed sources – a common analogy is water. Magical power is dispersed throughout the world, and much like water there are areas where it is scarce and plentiful. Hedge-witches can only gather dew to replenish their stores,” he waited for their nod at the analogy to continue, “Journeyman can access streams, Master-class can access rivers, and Adept class can access whirlpools.”

“Not lakes?” Anur interrupted.

“There aren’t any naturally occurring ‘lakes’,” Kir replied, “Two fast moving rivers traveling in different direction meet – a lake does not form, rapids and whirlpools do. To extend the analogy, lakes would be pools of power kept by some schools and groups of mages as a collective, contributed to gradually by each individual and used for delicate works.”

“And blood-mages?” the Queen prompted, interest clear on her face, “Do they follow the same classification?”

“They cheat,” Kir shrugged, “Very few blood-mages are Adept class naturally, usually it is weaker mages, hedge-witches or journeyman, some masters, who turn to blood-magic. That is because blood-magic takes spilled blood and death, turning those lives spent into energy for their magic. It poisons the land, the mind of the practitioner and those around them if proper precautions are not taken. Very, very rarely they are. Usually they are at first and then as the mage grow drunk on power, they leave the precautions aside as those precautions are viewed as wastes of time and energy.”

“So the more people who die, the more energy these mages receive?” Anur asked grimly.

“The mages must be present to harness it,” Kir corrected, “They can funnel it back, but they must be there. So the sooner you kill the mages, the less energy Ancar’s blood-mage corps receives from the battle.”

“You mentioned them gaining energy from pain,” Selenay said quietly, “Does that – “

“Torture, yes,” Kir interrupted, “Specialized skill, draining energy from torture, but for those that do it, they can extract more energy from one person than they can from three direct deaths at least. It is a disgusting craft.”

All three of the Heralds were pale with rage, Kir raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. It was likely Ancar would gain more energy from the deaths and torture of Gifted such as these Heralds, so it was unlikely there had not been at least one Herald tortured under that man’s order. Given what Anur had suffered at the hands of his fellow priests, he did not feel comfortable asking after the issue.

“Kir?” Anur asked in a low voice, “Do… other priests – ?”

“If they do, I burn them,” Kir said flatly. “Firestarters were founded as an order to combat blood-mages. Though the last blood-mage in Karse was over six hundred years ago, we are still trained in identifying them, and taught that should we find one, they burn. No exceptions. And with how they gain their power, I have no desire to leave one breathing.”

“Right,” Anur shuddered, knuckles white on the table, “Right. So – “

“So there are simply twisted individuals in the priesthood,” Kir responded quietly, “Far too many of them in positions of power. Blood magic is not the only crime worthy of burning, it is simply the easiest to identify and prove.”

“Well,” the Queen breathed, before nodding shortly and getting to her feet, the three of them quickly rising as well. “Thank you, for your explanation Sunpriest Dinesh, and for your services yesterday. The plan is for a dawn departure tomorrow.”

“Understood. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kir inclined his head and she returned the respectful nod before walking away.

“See? She’s not so bad,” Anur murmured as they sat down again. Kir just glowered at him, before returning his attention to Griffon and saying in Valdemaran, “About blind firestarting, you were saying?”

 ***===***pagebreak***===***

Dawn the next morning found Kir and Anur sitting on their respective mounts by the gates, waiting for the two guards who were accompanying them to finish their final checks. Anur had a map with the route detailed on it, as did the drover, and they hoped to reach the border a few marks before noon, so by the time night fell the Valdemaran group would be well within their own borders once again. No one wanted to have to worry about Furies.

As the Queen had requested, there was a homing pigeon caged in the packed wagon. Kir wasn’t sure what exactly they wanted, or how they would arrange any sort of regular communication, but he doubted the Captain would reject it out of hand. It was too likely they would end up in similar straights again, even with war being officially declared by the arrival of the new company down river.

Kir was spending the time mentally going through dawn prayers, deciding not to risk antagonizing anyone by saying them aloud. The Valdemarans had all been remarkably tolerant, probably thanks to his friendship with Anur, but he felt no need to rub in his status as long-standing enemy in their faces. Yesterday discussing his fellow priests’ torture practices had been nerve-wracking enough.

“So, Asher is studying to be a priest?” Kir prompted after they finally got the go-ahead to ride out, leading the way with Anur.

Anur perked up and said, “That’s right! I didn’t get you caught up on Asher’s doings!”

It was more than enough to get them to the point they left the road, Anur using dramatic gestures as he explained what Asher had been up to. They had gone to Haven after a week recuperating in the Guard station, arriving just before winter truly hit. The pair wintered over, Asher moving into the Temple of the Lord of Light in Haven proper after only a few days there. Anur was still somewhat confused as to how he found the place and got a position so quickly, but he had shrugged it off, just content Asher had found a place and seemed happy.

They exchanged letters, and Kir was touched to find out Asher had been sending a few sentences directed at him in each one. Mostly well-wishes and telling Anur to pass them on when they saw each other again.

“There was one weird one though,” he commented, finally winding down the long-winded explanation, almost at the border by the time he finished. “He said to tell you he had a dream about a woman with ‘golden eyes’ and that she was the rising son, with son spelled like the child, not the celestial body.”

Kir gave him an askance look, “Really?”

“Swear,” Anur replied. “Any idea what it means?”

“All I can think of is a rising Son of Sun, but a woman… that doesn’t fit,” Kir shrugged. “If it is a prophecy, then we will find out eventually. If not, he simply has odd dreams.”

“I had some really weird dreams as a child. Still do actually,” Anur mused, Kir just snorting and letting the odd message fall by the wayside. He would find out soon enough, though if Asher genuinely was a Prophet, it was very good indeed he had gotten out of Karse. Prophets, supposedly valued, were all too often martyrs when their messages did not align with the political power of the day.

And a woman as the Son of Sun? Definitely did not align with the political powers of today.

The group rode in silence for the rest of the time, going to the tops of the hills frequently to check their progress and for obstructions on the route. Kir noted once what might have been a herd of sheep in the distance, but it quickly went out of sight. The herder had probably spotted him and immediately headed away, a good practice to have here.

It was on one of these checks, the sun nearing its peak, when Kir was spotted by someone else keeping a weather eye out. “This crazy plan actually _worked_?” he heard them yelp, sound carrying here, and he chuckled, calling back, “Hail the squad!”

“Found them?” Anur called up, Kir nodding at him and Aelius bounding up the hill to stand next to Riva so Anur could spot their new target too. “They do know I was coming with you, right?” he asked after he spotted the lookout as well, apparently only just realizing they might have reacted violently to the appearance of a Herald.

“Yes, I told them not to shoot the Demon-Rider,” Kir snorted, the pair looping back down to rejoin the guardsmen and wagon, four mules tied into a string following it.

“Oh good, that would have ended any sort of future agreements quickly,” Anur joked, nodding at the guardsmen’s questioning looks. “We’re about there,” he said, “The party is forewarned that we’ll be with Kir, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. Just in case, keep your hands off your weapons and let Kir talk them down.”

A few minutes later and they arrived at the sheltered spring, Devek walking over and giving a fist-over-heart salute, “Father Kir. It is good to see you back,” he said, formality undermined by the clear relief in his voice.

“Because we couldn’t come up with a good excuse for your vanishing,” one of the twins, possibly Balin, chimed in, Devek shooting them a stern look and both shrugging, the other (Galen) saying, “It’s true sir. Furies made no sense, as that would imply he was a heretic and bring extra scrutiny.”

“Hardornen troops made no sense, as we’d end up with a black-robe summoner and who wants one of those?” the first one to speak up continued with a shudder.

Anur and the Valdemarans were grinning at the banter, and Kir smiled slightly. That had probably been the aim; he was certain the four had spent quite a bit of the past two days working out their strategies for his arrival or failure, so he doubted any of this was truly unintentional.

“Herald Anur, Lieutenant Devek Korisho. Mounted we have Ensign Malak Greves, and the twins are Second Scouts Balin and Galen Sescha.”

Anur nodded at the group, indicating the guards behind him and saying, “Driving we have Second Lieutenant Trent Velas, and riding we have Sergeant Dalen Benar and Lieutenant Vern Weaver.”

“Let’s get those supplies unloaded so we can do the transfer and you can get on your way,” Kir said, dismounting and Devek taking Riva’s reins to lead him away before Kir could grab at them, the twins coming over to help unload. They were both more boisterous than usual, clearly playing up their sibling relationship to keep the situation from getting too tense. He’d have to list them for commendation.

Anur gave as good as he got of course, using his fluent Karsite to jump in with his own stories and jabber translations at the guards, who all had a decent understanding of the language but weren’t up to the twins’ over-enthusiastic babbling. Malak and Weaver somehow ended up in a conversation regarding archery techniques, occasionally setting down the sacks they were carrying to demonstrate with Malak’s bow.

Kir could only watch the bizarrely fast alliance in disbelief. By the time two marks were up, the tension between the two opposing groups had faded to near nothing, transfer of goods complete and the Sunsguard and Valdemaran Guard exchanging curious farewells and well-wishes. He turned to Anur with a raised eyebrow, the Herald giving him a sheepish grin and shrug, “We chose the Guard just for this. We all love to talk.”

Kir smiled ruefully, “I will admit, these four volunteered knowing they’d probably end up meeting Valdemarans.”

“So best of two groups, and we didn’t need to get them drunk first,” Anur smiled brilliantly, “We’re not so different, Kir. Just people, just soldiers doing our jobs. And with Ancar as a common enemy, who knows what could be set aside for good?”

And for the first time in a while, Kir let himself consider the future without the grim certainty that nothing would truly change. Maybe that was Anur’s Gift, he thought wryly, the man seemed to change the world for the better by sheer force of will that it _should_ be better.

“Who knows?” he echoed, witch-horse Sun-in-Glory warm against his chest, exchanging a smile with the Herald. “It’ll be interesting to see.”

“We’ll make it work, agreement of the Captain or no,” Anur informed him, holding out his hand, “Friendship doesn’t need authorization.”

Kir just shook his head, clasping the Herald’s forearm with a smile, “Go, Herald. Don’t get caught this side of the border in the dark. Pass on my greetings to Asher and Herald Griffon for me, and make sure he has plenty of water while he practices for the next while.”

“Oh I plan to,” Anur smirked as he mounted up on Aelius, Guards retaking their own saddles and the Second Lieutenant retaking the drafter’s reins. “I have money on him burning off his own eyebrows by accident.”

That startled a laugh out of him, and he raised a hand in farewell, watching until the group of Valdemarans crested the hills and vanished from sight. He looked over at the Sunsguard who had accompanied him, and was unsurprised to find them all looking somewhat contemplative.

“Think we can load this on eight mules and five horses?” Kir challenged, and the four shook it off, Devek smiling, “Of course Father. Let’s get back.”

“And nice job, all of you,” Kir said, meeting each of their eyes individually before they got back to work, “It is not easy, to see past their uniforms.”

The four all exchanged looks and shrugs, apparently designating Devek their spokesman again and the Lieutenant turned to him, saying, “No, it’s not sir. But if a Firestarter can befriend a Herald, how could we justify continuing a feud we’d set aside for drinks?”

“Still,” Kir acknowledged, “You handled it well.”

“Thank you, Father Kir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to send a huge thank you to my readers, because seeing this story actually being read and enjoyed by fellow Misty fans is absolutely wonderful!


	5. Greet the Rising Son

They reached the camp the following afternoon, shouts going up the moment they were spotted and the Captain there to greet them by the time they arrived. Captain Ulrich and Sergeant Greich were both staring at the heavily laden mules and horses incredulously, easily able to tell that they were carrying back far more than they left with.

“It actually worked?” Captain Ulrich asked in surprise, Kir swinging down from Riva’s back and pulling a bag off a mule’s back, setting it down by the captain and carefully opening it, revealing the entire thing filled with beans. The bag alone would feed the unit for a day or two and there were plenty more like it.

“We have two to three months of basic supplies, supplemented with our own hunting,” Kir informed him, “I have a full accounting, and all Valdemaran labels have been removed though some of the goods are somewhat un-Karsite based on differences in climate.”

“Thank the Sunlord,” Ulrich breathed, staring at the sack of provision in front of him. Sergeant Greich had a grin on his face, and he turned to the staring men of the unit and barked, “Well? What are you waiting for? Get this train integrated with our own supplies! You can gawk later!”

Quickly organizing themselves, the mules were unloaded and things stored with their normal supplies in record time. Kir was only aware of Riva being taken away after he grabbed his personal packs and the wicker cage holding the carrier pigeon, as Captain Ulrich quickly hustled him off to his tent, leaving the Sergeant to oversee supply dispersal.

“How did it go, truly?” the Captain asked anxiously, waving him into a camp chair and passing some water over before he took his own seat.

“Stressful,” Kir said wryly, “But it went. I was asked to convey greetings and sympathies, and the hope for a more regular means of communication, so that if this might happen again we can arrange things without hitting the point of desperation.”

“Hence the pigeon,” Ulrich grimaced, looking at the bird. “We are going to return to barracks, set up the usual patrols, but with the Oriflamme down the border, the Sergeant and I determined it would be best to at least try and get aid from Sunhame. It is also courtesy, to see if they will be stationed here long. Depending on the results of that visit… then we will send the bird.”

“Either way, a response will need to be sent, simply so they are aware their supplies made it here,” Kir said, the Captain nodding, staring at clasped hands.

“Not heresy, Father? Are you certain?” the Captain asked tiredly.

Kir leaned forward, resting a hand on the Captain’s and waiting for tired hazel eyes to meet his. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I… I was not. Certain. When I said it before I left. But seeing their soldiers, speaking with their people – they are not witches, nor do they shelter them. King Ancar is using blood-magic against them and against his own people.”

“Blood magic?” the Captain whispered, pale. Blood-mages were the witches of old, old horror stories. The ones that were no longer told to children, because Heralds made for less devastatingly powerful enemies. But they were there, in the Writ, if one knew where to look. And Captains in the Sunsguard were carefully instructed in at least the basics of those who they were expected to kill on sight, even if it had been six hundred years since the last hunt in Karse.

“Yes,” Kir confirmed grimly. “I would pass it on to Sunhame, but it would raise questions of where I gained the knowledge.”

“We cannot fight blood-magic, not without aid,” Ulrich shuddered, “Firestarter you may be, Father, but you are only one man. You cannot be everywhere. _Blood-magic_. Vkandis be merciful.”

“Beyond that,” Kir smiled wryly, trying to lighten the mood, “I wear a Sun-in-Glory made of witch-horse hair, rode one into Flames to wrench a Herald and Prophet from their grasp, and then again into battle a few days ago. I am far more condemned than you.”

“Captain? Father?” a younger scout stuck his head in and saluted before continuing, “The cooks want to know if they can throw a bit of a party with our bounty sir. To make sure they know how to prepare it all.”

Ulrich chuckled and nodded, the scout saluting again before darting away. The pair sat in silence, listening to the unit through the thin walls of the tent. Light-hearted banter and dramatic stories seemed to be the order of the hour, far different from the grim silence and determined quiet that had blanketed the camp as they watched their food stores dwindle away under the hot sun.

“Heresy,” the Captain mused, “It is the duty of the Captain, I think, to take those burdens from his men. You may be my senior in service, Father, but you are still one of mine. If we are to burn as heretics, I will burn alongside you. I will think on the bird, and on our further course of action. You and the Sergeant will go with a squad to the other company, as a show of respect and courtesy to the bearers of the Oriflamme. Return to us at the barracks, I will have thought it through by then.”

“Very well, Captain.”

“Now let’s see what bizarre concoction the cooks will be forcing upon us tonight!”

 ***===***pagebreak***===***

Kir understood his duty to the Oriflamme and to the unit, but he still felt tired as they packed up the next day. A single pack-beast carried the gear for himself, the Sergeant and the two Sunsguard accompanying them. The twins actually, it seemed they had fought for the right to accompany them south, particularly after it was decided they would only take two Sunsguard rather than a complement of four.

The quartet rode out by midmorning, keeping an easy pace under the burning sun. Kir had gotten a chance after the Sun-Rising service to use some wash-water to scrub at his field robes, the red color somewhat restored as weeks of dust were washed out, the worst of the stains around his sleeves and hemline not too noticeable. He had considered pulling out the formal set, but had decided against it. The last thing they needed was for him to keel over from heatstroke. Besides, he was a chaplain, they were expected to be a little less ostentatious.

They stopped briefly in the shade of a hill a mark past high-noon to give their horses some water and confer before they reached the company, two marks away at most. Sergeant Greich, having the contact in the Company and the rank, would take the lead, but not much else had been decided.

“So the primary goal is to determine how long this company will be here,” Kir summarized, “You two are in charge of determining if they _are_ staying, how much will we have to isolate the men from our less than politically correct components,” he indicated the twins, who nodded firmly. “The Sergeant is in charge of sounding out supply train woes and the commanding officers, while I get to deal with my brother priests.”

“Have fun sir!” Galen offered, Kir sighing and picking at the hem of his sleeve. “Sunhame,” he said woefully, “I _hate_ Sunhame.”

“Well, faster we get in, faster we get away,” Greich said practically, “Mount up.”

The four rode out at once, each eager to get this over with and back to their unit for their own reasons, though they basically boiled down to the sentiments Kir had already expressed.

“Seems we just missed the fun,” Sergeant Greich commented when they came in sight of the camp a bare mark before dusk truly set in. Judging by the men still out piling corpses on the battlefield a ways distant, it had only been some marks since the fighting truly stopped.

“Yes. Fun,” Kir said wryly, eyes picking out the regiment flag and the Oriflamme flying above it. “Anyone see the Colonel or shall we ask?”

“Seems to be a bright turban by the Oriflamme sir,” Balin pointed out, “If that’s not him, they’d know.”

The four of them dismounted and approached, appearance noted and a runner going towards the Oriflamme, so at least they had been heading in the right direction. They reached the command tents and Oriflamme to find the Colonel, a grizzled Sergeant with a truly horrific scar across his head who grinned at sight of Greich, and three priests. Kir eyed the group of priests curiously – there was an interesting dynamic here. The one red-robe Priestess was standing comfortably with the Colonel and Pikemaster, a few significant steps from the black-robes, who were, for lack of a better word, lurking. They were being avoided and ignored by the soldiers walking past, while the Priestess was receiving nods of acknowledgement, murmured greeting and some awed looks.

Seems they _had_ missed all the fun.

Those significant feet made him aware of the fact the twins and Sergeant were standing within grabbing range of himself and showed no awkwardness at it. It was telling, that radius, and he took the reminder of improved relations happily. He sometimes forgot how isolated the priesthood was, where his own situation was actually surprisingly integrated, as without the comparison it seemed he only noticed the gap between their treatment of him and their fellows.

“Colonel,” Greich said, saluting as they halted before him, “I bear greetings from Captain Ulrich of the 62nd, and hopes to coordinate efforts, if you are stationed here for any significant length of time. I am Sergeant Greich, these are Second Scouts Balin and Galen Sescha, and First Order Firestarter Kir Dinesh, our unit chaplain.”

“Welcome to the 21st, Sergeant, Firestarter,” the Colonel acknowledged the three soldier’s salutes with one of his own, introducing his own party. “I am Colonel Tregaron, I believe you are familiar with Sergeant Cogern, and these are Priestess Solaris and Black-robes Havern and Amaril, of the capitol’s troika.”

Kir nearly raised an eyebrow at that – not even the title of priest? It wasn’t an insult or any status statement, but the omission, when Priestess Solaris was not so treated, was even more telling than the few-step gap. What had happened to bring them around to her so strongly? He would admit that she could be viewed as attractive, but she also had the sexless aura of a priest who took her chastity vows seriously so he doubted that was it.

“Your party is welcome to join ours for the night, so we might lay groundwork for future cooperation,” the Colonel said, polished words a distinct contrast to Captain Ulrich’s often blunt assessments. He was probably more used to dealing with the higher ranking members of the priesthood and less tolerant politically minded members at that, so his more polished words made sense. It was still amusing.

“Certainly, our thanks, Colonel. Is there anywhere you could use our aid?”

“All that remains is the battlefield clean-up, though an exchange of information starting now would be best,” the Colonel replied, Kir unable to prevent the raised eyebrow at that, expression echoed in the other three’s faces. Not the infirmary? Either they had more than enough medics or something odd happened there.

No one elaborated, and none were willing to ask, so Kir nodded shortly, looking over to the twins and with a quirk of a brow, received their nods. He turned to the Sergeant, who shrugged, and he looked at the Colonel and finally spoke up, saying dryly, “We are quite experienced with battlefield clean-up. Where might we tie our horses before heading over? Sergeant, shall I take your mount?”

Greich mutely handed him the mare’s reins and though the Colonel seemed a little shocked by Kir’s ready volunteering, he nodded to one of the conscripts who came over to lead them to the lines of horses. The pack-beast was taken by a pair of conscripts to presumably set up their tents.

“We have a wish-list sir?” Balen asked as they groomed their horses, Kir taking care of both his and the Sergeant’s.

“I do,” he nodded in reply. “Riva’s rather tired, either of yours up to play hauler or shall we borrow the Sergeant’s?”

“Sergeant’s had the least work,” Galen pointed out and with that it was decided. The trio walked out to the battlefield, heading for the turbaned officer to offer assistance directly.

The Lieutenant was eyeing Kir as he told them what sections they hadn’t gotten to yet. He was clearly surprised when Kir informed him that if they just built the pyres, he would come around and set them alight once they were set up. It wasn’t a duty most priests, even with their experience with flames, would volunteer for. They also received some strange looks for the mare following them around placidly.

“Doesn’t seem they’re looting,” Kir observed as they headed for the section they had been assigned.

“They probably get restocked often,” Balin observed sourly, “With the Oriflamme and all. Can’t have an honored unit going hungry or short on – caltrops!”

He bent over and scooped the iron pieces out of the ground. They all stopped and picked up those nearby, keeping an eye out as they walked through the field. “Could have at least warned us, Sergeant would tan our hides for getting his girl lamed,” Balin continued grumbling.

“Hmm. Cavalry,” Kir observed as they reached their assigned corpses, “I’ll go through the packs while you get the bodies?”

“Of course Father,” they chorused, Kir pulling one of the sets of packs off a horse and emptying them so the caltrops could be dropped in them. The sergeant’s mare stayed with him as he picked through the personal gear and weapons to find the true gems. After four horses there were two letters and a few nice personal semi-precious stones and adornment in addition to the usual weapons. They had much higher quality equipment than the drafted, but this looked to be a mercenary unit more than Hardornen regulars, so it didn’t seem likely they’d find many true grunts in this.

“Merc medallions can be melted down, right Father?” Galen asked, and Kir looked over in surprise, “This lot is guilded?” he asked.

“Some guilded free-lance, sir, not all of them,” Galen shrugged and Kir returned it, “Don’t see why not. Might not be worth it if there aren’t many, though they could be useful for other reasons.”

“Right,” he nodded, clearly catching the implications and they returned to stripping corpses of anything useful and salvageable.

“Ooh, nice spurs,” Balin complemented his current corpse, pulling them off the boots and examining them. “I think these might be my personal claim for the battle.”

“Not much use for spurs as trade items,” Kir replied, poking his way through a small pouch of semi-precious stones and basic coins. It seemed the stones were a primary form of currency among these mercs. He just wanted to check for enchantments.

“We had a few requests for new spurs,” Balin recalled, Kir looking into the distance as he recalled what was on their ‘wish-list’.

“Some new spurs, a few helmets, but those would be best to wait until they could try them on themselves. Hostlers wouldn’t mind some new equipment – reins and such. No real use for Hardornen saddles, and most of these have been ruined by trampling. Some bridles are salvageable though. Mostly we want military intelligence. Any unbroken bows and arrows, healing equipment, tradable items like money and such of course. We’re in luck there, a lot of semi-precious stones and coin with this batch.”

“Excellent,” Galen said, putting the second set of loaded salvage-packs onto Greich’s mare’s back.

“Hey sir! Check this out!” Balin pulled a silken sash out from around a still corpse, the color muddy but recognizable a deep crimson when cleaned. “You should take it sir, works with your robes.”

Kir accepted the sash and examined it critically before wrapping it around his waist, tying it in a flat knot on his left hip, trailing ends lying over his long-knife.

“Dashing, Father,” Galen replied solemnly. Kir just raised an eyebrow at the two, wondering at their continued casualness with him. He wasn’t complaining, but it was curious how their relation with him had changed after returning from the supply-run.

They apparently caught it and exchanged glances before shrugging in unison and turning back to him, Galen answering, “We have relatives who’ve…vanished sir. A lot of them. And we see them occasionally, or at least we did, before we signed on. We’re not normally so silent and stand-offish, but…well, eccentric is one thing, tolerant of vanished relatives and friendly relations with them is another. But you don’t strike us as a hypocrite sir.”

“Oh far be it for me to condemn someone for friends from the north,” Kir chuckled, surprised that it was really that simple, but it did make sense. “How many of the unit are like this?”

“Probably an even quarter of us sir,” Galen anwered.

Vkandis worked in mysterious ways. If a full quarter was like that, it was very likely that the entire unit, already sympathetic, would very easily be convinced to at least try working with Valdemarans. Considering trying, and the difference with the reality of doing, would be difficult to overcome, but it was a good, and very fortunate, start.

The rest of their picking and piling went smoothly, occasional calls for the others to help with a particularly heavy horse or comments on what they had found.  True dusk had started to fall when the battlefield was filled with nothing but pyres. The three of them went to those closest to camp and Kir eyed the field thoughtfully. The distance between pyres was narrow enough he thought he could get this done with flame-jumps from pyre to pyre.

“Sir? Light these two to start it?” Balin asked, Galen and he both hefting torches. He nodded and the duo set a torch on the fuel-and-corpse pyres nearest, hastily stepping back while Kir decided to at least mutter an invocation.

An abbreviated traditional Firestarter invocation and one arm wave later, and the flames roared to life around the two pyres, both arching back to light off the pyres nearest them with a practiced twist of mind and fingers, before long the entirety of the pyres ablaze. Kir stepped back and waited, Galen and Balin flanking him and the Sergeant’s horse waiting, entirely unconcerned with the blazing pyres.

By the murmurs of the remaining pyre building crew, they at least were a little surprised by his easy ignition of the pyres. He would bet that they would simply pass it off as a typical Firestarting trick, however, as the Firestarter Order seldom had much to do with the Sunsguard outside of witch-hunts, and if this unit had the Oriflamme they probably hadn’t had much to do with internal witch-hunting affairs.

A watch had already been established to ensure they burnt to ash and didn’t spread on dry grass, so Kir felt no worry at leaving those soldiers to it and returning the Sergeant’s mare to the picket line, thick black smoke boiling up into the darkening sky, blowing towards Hardorn once more.

A runner had apparently been waiting for them, as once they reached the picket-line of horses, one approached and said, “Sunpriest Dinesh, Sunpriestess Solaris wants to know if you would like to join her for the Sun-Setting service.”

Kir nodded shortly, “It would be my pleasure. Can you direct me to her?”

“I will escort you, your Holiness,” the conscript nodded to the two scouts and then turned to lead him away, Kir walking mostly alongside him as they went through camp. He didn’t bother trying to speak to him, the tension in his posture enough to let Kir know that this one fell into the usual category of response to Firestarters. Utter terror.

He kept the usual bland expression on his face. He had mastered that look early on in his studies to be a priest, as a blandly attentive acolyte attracted little attention compared to the fanatic and the rebel. Attention in the priesthood was a bad thing to attract unless you were established and even then it was always a gamble.

“Brother,” the red-robed woman greeted warmly, looking up from where she was preparing a basic field altar near the Oriflamme, the black-robes nowhere to be found.

“Sister,” Kir returned, smile forming at the clear welcome. Few priests would even welcome a Firestarter, as they were responsible for policing the priesthood for heresy as well as the populace, and it took far less to qualify for burning as a heretic priest than a heretic citizen.

The runner quietly excused himself and left, bowing slightly at Solaris before hastening away. Kir watched him go with interest. An actual _bow_ , given, a slight one, but very interesting. He returned his attention to the red-robe, exchanging quick blessings with her as was the custom before stepping forward to help unfold the altar cloth over the basic plank-stake altar.

“Have you served with the Sunsguard long?” she asked, smoothing the rich orange cloth while Kir dug through the box nearby for the appropriate altar adornments.

“Nine years,” Kir replied, Solaris accepting the sun-in-glory idol and staring at him incredulously, brown hair catching the sun and revealing deep golden highlights. “Nine years? With the same unit?” she asked.

Kir smiled wryly, “I was only supposed to be stationed for two or three, but it was deemed unnecessary to move me. I enjoy the work however. Much better than roving Firestarter.”

She caught the implications of the first sentence and gave a sad smile at that, nodding at the reality of their stations. Much of it was politics, rather than any true calling into service with the Sunlord.

“And yourself? How long have you been with the 21st?” he asked, setting a silk-lined box of finger bones from a holy figure on the altar, which were probably bones from some convict grabbed out of the drawers of ‘holy’ relics in Sunhame’s vaults.

“Oh this is my first time riding out with them,” she replied, indicating the slowly flapping banner above them, “I was sent out along with Sunpriests Havern and Amaril to escort the Oriflamme.”

He looked up at the banner, the pair of them now simply waiting for those who would be standing through the official service with them to arrive before beginning the service. “It’s very nice,” he commented, eyeing the way it was stitched to reflect maximum light off its brightly colored stitching and brocade. He was an inexpert sewer, able to mend and stitch in a straight line, but he knew high quality work when he saw it. All priests probably did, to assess the value of tithe contributions.

She hid a smile behind her hand, saying in reply, “Just nice?”

Kir looked over at her and quirked his own smile in return, “I’ll admit, right now I’m far more inclined to praise medical supplies and quality metal-work and armor than I am glorifications of the Sunlord. It’s been a hard year.”

She nodded solemnly, “I was taken from my village for this assignment. We have received a few new members moving in with family after they fled the fighting. Is this the first sign of active response to Ancar’s movements?”

“Yes. Until now it’s been just the efforts of bandit patrolling units like the 62nd, and we are the closest to the Hardorn-Valdemar junction, so we get those attacking Karse as well as the ones fleeing fights with the Valdemarans,” Kir replied, nodding at the crowd that had finally assembled and saying, “Care to lead, Sister?”

“Of course,” she smiled and turned to lead the service. Kir was content to stand back and assist as though he were an acolyte again, serving as the guest priest. The two black-robes stood off to the side, participating in the service as members of the congregation, but not truly a part of it. Kir didn’t feel any obligation to be friendly to them though, by the stiffly condescending expressions on their faces, they found the whole matter beneath them. Glory-seekers then, only after the Oriflamme to head-hunt and gain political strength. Sunhame, in a curse.

The service was surprisingly well-attended. Though services were mandatory for all those not on-duty, it was very easy to get assigned duties varying from truly essential to time-wasters during the service time. Judging by the crowd, only the truly essential posts were being covered tonight. It was doubtless due to who was leading the service, as all eyes were locked on her throughout the service.

The dismissing hymn was beautiful, with so many participating. In barracks, the chapel could only fit half the unit, which was barely a quarter size of this company all-told. He preferred the smaller services for everyday though, he liked to actually personally know the people he ministered to. With a full Company it wasn’t really possible.

He was invited to dine with the Captain, the other three Sunpriests there as well, making for a rather awkward experience. He was able to carry a conversation with Solaris rather easily, as she at least made the effort to talk, and it seemed speaking with her was enough to get the Captain talking to him or at least not outright ignoring him, but the other two were quite content to ignore any overtures, so Kir let them sulk. He hoped that Priestess Solaris knew what she was doing, alienating them like this. He doubted two black-robes chosen to escort the Oriflamme were apolitical.

By the time he ducked into the tent he was sharing with the Sergeant, his entire back was knotted up with tension from the black-robes’ presence. He was so happy that the 62nd was basically ignored – it led to situations like dire shortages, but at least they didn’t have back-stabbing glory-hounds lurking in the wings.

The Sergeant, barely visible in dim light of the moon, raised an eyebrow mutely. Kir just shook his head, none of his conclusions were things that could be spoken of in a tent surrounded by people not of their unit. Even then, they were somewhat tenuous.

It wasn’t until the following morning, when he and the Sergeant were packing up in pre-dawn light before he went to see if he could help with the Sun-Rising service, that they had a chance to discuss things in low voices. The beginnings of camp-noise helped cover up their conversation as did their movements.

“Apparently, that priestess healed all their mortally wounded when the black-robes came to pull them for the tithe,” Greich informed him lowly as they pulled stakes. “And can I say how grateful I am you’ve never done a living tithe? Those play merry hell on morale.”

“Not just the unit’s,” Kir shuddered, before continuing, “That would explain the divide I saw, between the black-robes and Priestess Solaris. She was far more welcomed and viewed with genuine respect and awe, while they were viewed in – well. In a manner more typical to Sunpriests.”

“Miraculous healing,” Greich muttered, tent soon folded tightly and bound to packs to carry to the mule. “I never – never thought it really happened, I suppose. Not anymore.”

Kir didn’t say anything to that, having felt much the same as he learned tricks and spells to make miraculous happenings appear on command. He had only ever done firestarting remotely, even then not claiming it was any true miracle, rather a talent he had for fire in general.

They split, Greich going to fetch the twins and the pack-mule while Kir went to the altar, unsurprised to find Solaris already there setting it up. She smiled as he approached and they quietly and quickly finished the set-up.

“Are you often ministering solo on this trip?” he asked lowly as those who would attend this service – not as many as yesterday evening, but still a surprising amount – started to form rows.

“Actually these are some of the first times I’ve had a chance to minister to the unit as a whole,” Solaris replied, a rueful twist to her lips, “Brothers Havern and Amaril took the more…prestigious posts throughout the journey north.”

Kir hummed thoughtfully before they launched into one of the less common duet services – they had discussed it last night and decided they might as well. Kir hadn’t had the opportunity since his acolyte days to do more than witness one, and Solaris enjoyed them.

He enjoyed performing the rites with her far more than he had with his fellow acolytes for practice. The competition amongst Firestarter acolytes had been fierce indeed, so there hadn’t been much opportunity for friendship. And when the symbolically everlasting flame (not truly, not in a field altar) ignited with no cue from him, for the first time he didn’t wonder how it had been done so subtly. The brief golden gleam in Solaris’ eye as they said the final dismissal blessings only firmed his belief.

Watching the attendees file away to their duties, Kir let the rising sun warm his face, saying to her, “It will be interesting. To watch the son’s ascent.”

The brief surprise on her face, subsiding to a calmly knowing smile, was confirmation enough. She offered more, nodding and replying, “It will indeed.”

They looked at each other, neither member of the priesthood needing to speak aloud what Kir now felt to be true deep in his bones. Solaris’ smile widened and she asked, “Would you care to strike up a correspondence about it?”

“I would be honored,” Kir whispered, honey-brown eyes lightening to gold again as she reached over as if to rest her hand on his metal Sun-in-Glory medallion, but instead slipping her hand under it to rest on his robe, directly over the witch-horse hair emblem of their God.

“Not heresy,” she said quietly, “And only temporarily treason. Go with Vkandis, brother.”

“Vkandis protect you, sister,” Kir replied, the exchange of blessings ending their conversation and the pair going their separate ways, Kir to the horses so he could saddle and get Riva ready to ride, Solaris to her duties to the Company.

Not even a mark later and the four of them rode out, eating a cold trail-ration breakfast as they rode. When they were out of eyesight of the furthest watch, Balin looked over at Kir and asked, “Father? Priestess Solaris, do you think she really performed a miracle?”

He looked over at Balin, jolted out of his almost serene musings, noting that all three were listening intently for his answer. He didn’t even try to stop the smile that spread across his face, saying, “I am certain of it. Solaris is the Son Ascendant.”


End file.
